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PREJUDICE. 


PROURESS AND 


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CUrMfVCXO 

BY MBS. *"GOBE. 

.K 

AUXnOB OP “ THE banker’s daughter,” “ MOTHERS AND DAUGHTERS,” 

“ PRKraRMENT,” ETC., ETC. 


“ Aloof, wllh hermit eye, T scon 
The preMnt deedfl of present man." 

COLKRIDOB. 



NTEW YORK: 

DE WITT & DAYENPORT, PUBLISHERS, 

160 & 162 NASSAU STREET. 



PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


OHAPTEE' I. 

It was a happy day at Meadowes Court ; a day long looked 
for, come at last ; the seventeenth birthday of the only daugh- 
ter — nay, the only child — of the house; who, from her earliest 
girlhood, had been promised that, on entering her eigliteenth 
year, she should be emancipated from the trammels of the 
governess, and introduced into society; tliat is, as far as com- 
ported with the facilities of a neighbourhood, where society, 
according to fashionable interpretation, there Avas none. 

There Avas, hoAvever, all that Amy Meadowes desired. She 
had heard no description, and by indiscriminate reading acquired 
no suspicion of any species of social order more brilliant than 
was presented by their obscure parish; and Avhat she chiefly 
ambitioned, in emerging from tlie school-room and getting rid of 
Miss lIoneyAVOod, was to devote herself exclusively to a dear, 
good mother, aaGio had been prevented by prolonged ill-health 
from usurping the functions of the unpopular individual, in 
Avhose disappearance from Meadowes Court, the preceding day, 
more thin half of poor Amy's present delight originated. 

So Ippg ^s she could remember. Lady MeadoAves had been 
confined to a suite of rooms on the ground-floor of her old- 
fashioned home: so long as she could remember, — because the 


4 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


delicacy of constitution which rendered her mother so close a 
prisoner, dated from the hour of her birth. .But though 3 
recluse, that kind mother was by no means a gloomy one. 
Incapable of physical exertion, she was fully erjual to the 
management of their small household : and all that could bo 
accomplished by pen and ink, by careful computation and 
careful regulation, was done to perfect economy of a moderate 
fortune, in connection with an honorable name and a residence 
of ancient repute in the county. 

The baronets of England. are in general a wealthy race, and 
predominate among our landed gentry. Unluckily, Sir Mark 
Meadowes was an exception. His daughter Amy knew only 
that his income was limited ; and that hence arose the scantiness 
of their household, and shabhiness of thfeir household gear. 
Their neighbours, had she been permitted to gossip with them, 
could, however, have informed her that, on attaining his 
majority, the rent-roll of her father trebled its present amount. 
At that time, he v/as involved in a vortex of fashionable dissi- 
pation, dicing, drinking, and squandering, in rivalship or imita- 
tion of Eox, Sheridan, and the orgies of Carlton House ; so that 
it was as wonderful as fortunate that even Meadowes Court, and 
its eight hundred acres, remained for the support of the family. 
That they did so was generally ascribed to the influence of his 
wife. From the day of their marriage. Sir Mark had become an 
altered man; contenting himself with the homely, homestaying, 
happy life of a sporting country squire. 

Many jieople asserted, on the otlmr band, that the old family 
mansion would have passed into the hands of usurers and Jews 
Avith the rest of the property, but for a strict entail upon liis 
heirs male. This, however, could scarcely be tlie case. For 
when, after ten long years of expectation, little Amy made her 
appearance, so far from lamenting, as was generally expected, 
their disappointment of a son and heir, the jiarents welcomed 
their little girl as the greatest ot blessings. 

Nothing therefore was left for officious neighbours but to fake 
it for granted that, thougli the old baronetcy, failing male issue 
to Sir Mark, would devolve upon a distant cousin, the estates 
must be heritable in the female line. And when it became 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


5 


appairent, from tlie infirm health of Lady Meadowes, that there 
was no likelihood of future olive-branches to exclude the sun- 
shine dawning upon the little heiress, they eventually adopted 
her, as her parents liad done from love at first sight, as their pet 
and darling. 

From the period ot her birth, the health of Lady Meadowes 
never rallied. Though cheerful, and at times capable of carriage 
exercise she was chiefly confined to her sofa; and her husband 
lost in her that daily -companion of his rides and walks, who had 
rendered his first ten years of married life an earthly paradise. 

But from the moment Amy was able to manage a pony, or 
adapt her little steps to his own, she had been promoted by Sir 
Mark to the vacant place by his side ; and soon progi*essed into 
jnst such an active, litlie-limbed being, as constant exercise, in 
all weathers, Avas likely to create. 

To her mother, meanwhile, the cheerful, hright-eyed child was 
an invaluable companion. The pursuits of St. Mark, both as a 
sportsman and farmer, were of too engrossing a nature not to 
leave tlie in valid frequently alone; and the prattle of the little 
girl served to lighten her solitude, till that serious nge arrived 
when the formation of her daughter’s character afibrded a still 
more interesting occupation. Willingly would Lady Meadowes 
have monopolized the task, and wholly undertaken her educa- 
tion. Bat Dr. Burnaby, a neighbouring physician, whose authori- 
ty at MeadoAves Court AA^as secondary only to its master’s, pro- 
nounced the task too trying for one so delicate ; and a competent 
gOA'erness was found, Avho, for ten ensuing years, had experienced 
some difficulty in obtaining as much of her pupil's time and 
attention as would enable her to do wliat she considered credit 
to them both. 

It was a hard matter to Avithdraw little Amy from the ailing 
mother, Avho Avanted to be talked to, and read to, and fondled ; 
and still harder, to convince the rough, outspoken Sir Mark, 
that a lesson of ancient history signified more than a Avholesome 
gallop on the banks of the SeA^ern ; and it is questionable, on the 
whole, whether the parents or their child experienced most sat- 
isfaction, on seeing the carriage return empty after conveying Miss 
Honey wood, for tlie last time, to the neighbouring station. 


6 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


They had parted, liowever, with imitnal kindness, and inntual 
respect. The good Avornan, so large a portion of Avhose lile had 
been devoted to inform the mind of the heiress of M^eadowea 
Court, carried away Avitli her the best proof of the gratitude of 
the family, in the shape of an annuity as liberal as comported 
Avith their moderate means; and there was consequently no draw- 
back upon Amy’s delightful consciousness of liberation. 

Any body intent upon her movements might have fancied that 
Amy was viewing for the first time the beauties of Meadowes 
Court, on the sunny morning in eJune we have been describing. 
"While the deAV was yet on the grass, she had visited eveiy nook 
in the shrubberies ; every flowery parterre, glowing like an in- 
serted gem amid the rich verdure of the western lawn. She had 
stood gazing, with her arms resting on the iron fence, upon the 
Avell-w’ooded paddock, which a more pretending man than. Si*' 
Mark Avould liave dignified Avith the name of park; admiring 
the morning light that tinged Avith silver the glossy bolls of tlie 
ancient beech trees, forming not only the beautiful avenue, but, 
in scattered groups, the most picturesque ornament of the do- 
main. The summer grass was high ; noisy Avith insects, fragrant 
Avith clover, and enamelled Avith the blue blossoms of the Avild 
veronica. All Avas gay, all was sAvcet ; as if to do honor to the 
auspicious epoch of Amy’s birthday. 

By the time her ])arents AA’ere astir, and she had been em- 
braced and congratulated, she Avas almost tired out by the vary- 
ing emotions agitating her frame. The good-Avill of the faithful 
old servants, the noisy caresses of her father’s favorite dogs, even 
the importunities of her pet mare, accustomed to be fed from 
her hand and thrust its nose in search of sugar into her ajirou 
pocket, seemed to demonstrate their sympathy in the grand event 
of the day; and Avhen required to be grateful for a beautiful 
pearl necklace — a family treasure, bestowed by her father, and 
a charming Avriting-desk prepared and filled for her by the dear- 
est of mothers, Amy had scarcely voice to be thankful. After 
taking part Avith both in the breakfast to Avhich lier hives fur- 
nished the honey-comb, and her dairy contributed the butter 
and cream, she felt as if Time could yield no second birthday 
equal to that Avhich brought such tears of joy into the eyes of 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


7 


her darling invalid — such smiles of exultation into the joyous 
face of Sir Mark. 

As the day progressed from dewy mom into burning noon, 
and from burning noon into that gradual lengthening of the 
• shadows which enabled the neighbouring families to afford their 
tribute of gratulation on a family event so long anticipated in 
their little circle, there arrived the clergyman of the parish of 
Radensford, old Mr. Henderson, with the young though widowed 
daughter, Mrs. Burton, who kept house for him; and soon after 
the pony-chaise and barouche of the Tremenheeres and Warne- 
fords — the only two families within visiting distance of Meadowes 
Court; the former containing Admiral Trernenheere and his 
spinster neice ; the latter. Lady Harriet Warneford and a batch 
of grandchildren. Amy had to be kissed again and again, and 
passed from hand to hand like a picture-book or a new toy. For 
the cadeaux^ lavished upon her by these kind friends, she felt 
])erhaps less grateful than she ought. The one great gift of lib- 
erty — the right of being allow^ed, henceforward, to think and 
feel for herself — to think and feel as a woman — superseded all 
other joys; and when she sat down quietly to dinner with her 
father and mother, after the departure of their guests, she could 
scarcely believe, the excitement of the day being over, that she 
had attained a new phase of her existence. Except that her 
cheeks were burning from too much talking and her ears con- 
fused by too much listening, she w'as obliged to admit that she 
felt very much as she had done the preceding day. 

Her father, indeed, saw her in a different light ; and on crown- 
ing his Amy’s health, when the servants left the room, with a 
fond embrace, wondered he had never before noticed the exqui- 
site beauty of the daughter who seemed suddenly to have started 
into life. Lady Meadowes, on the contrary, though she united 
her pious benediction with that of her husband, scarcely seemed 
to see that Amy was present. She felt it, however, to the in- 
nermost core of her heart. 

Lady Harriet Warneford, w'ho resided on a small estate, 
divided from that of Meadowes Court by a ragged strip of the 
royal forest of Burdans — a woman so advanced in life as to 
have survived her husband and eldest son, and to be presiding 


8 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


over the education of the three orphans of the latter — could 
not help wondering, at times, at the indifference exhibited by 
Lady Meadowes and her husband, to their daughter’s establish- 
ment in life. For her own sad experience of the uncertainty 
of life suggested that the death of Amy’s parents might leave 
tills fair young girl alone in a world, where youth and beauty so 
rare as hers demand a double share of protection. 

She had not yet ventured, however, to broach the subject to 
the invalid. The amiable, uncomplaining Lady Meadowes was 
a person to whom her friends, nay, even her acquaintances, were 
careful to avoid risking a moment’s pain. As to Sir Mark, you 
might as well have attempted to fling a black crape veil over 
the face of the sun as to pretend to darken his joyous impulses 
by a serious reflection. While Amy herself, whenever Lady 
Harriet came to pass a day with them, was so full of devices to 
amuse and please her little grandchildren, that it was impossible 
to hazard a word capable of overclouding her innocent heart. 

It was really a happy and sociable neighbourhood ; happy and 
sociable because limited in extent, and assimilated in rank and 
fortune. Ho disproportion, no envy, no jealousy. A country 
circle of this description is now rare to be found in wealthy, 
fussy, railroad-riven England. 

Miss Tremenheere, a damsel on the peevish side of thirty, and 
much addicted to moral reflection, sometimes whispered primly 
to Mrs. Burton, who, though a widow and a mother, was several 
years her junior, that Amy Meadowes’s seventeenth birthday 
had done little to endow her with fixity of purpose ; and that 
her parents were much to blame for not bringing her face to 
face with the stern realities of life. But the young widow, to 
whom that^ cheerful girl was endeared by a thousand acts of 
kindness towards herself and her sickly little girl, could see no 
fault in her. So long as Amy fulfilled her duties in life with 
care and love, it mattered little that she had always a song upon 
her lips; or that she ran forward to meet her friends, when a 
better-regulated young lady would have advanced with decent 
deliberation. 

One of Amy’s chief in-door pleasures was to read to her 
mother while she worked. Like the gentle lady wedded to the 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


9 


Moor, and most women condemned to a sedentary life, Lady 
Meadowes was “delicate with her needle;” and never had it 
moved with half so much alacrity as now that her daughter, 
with her silver voice and intuitive taste, was ever at hand to 
cheer her with the pages of some favourite work. 

“How strange it seems, mamma,” said Amy one day, when 
they had been surrounded for nearly an hour with the extensive 
family-group of one of Richardson’s novels, “ that not only am I 
an only child — no brother, no sister to keep me company — but 
that you and papa should also be in the same predicament!” 

Lady Meadovves worked on in silence. She did not appear in 
the humour for conversation. Perhaps the* inmates of Uncle 
Selby’s cedar parlour engrossed her attention more than they 
had done that of her daughter. 

“ It would have been so pleasant to have a cousin Lucy Selby or 
two, to come and stay with us here; or at least to supply friends 
and correspondents. ITot to fall in love with and marry, however, 
dear mamma, as poor Lady Harriet Warneford did; who, Mary 
Tremenheere tells me, led a miserable life with her husband.” 

“ Miss Tremenheere, Amy, is, I fear, a sad gossip !” 

“How can she help, answering me, mother, when I ask her 
questions ?” 

“ Then never ask them, darling, about things which do not 
concern you.” 

Amy blushed at the reproof, and promised. It was, perhaps, 
in dread of a further lesson, that she resumed the chapter of 
kindred. 

“ It always seems such a relief to Lady Harriet when her sis- 
ter, Lady Louisa Eustace, arrives at Radensford Manor. They 
have so many old stories to talk about ; so many broken inter- 
ests to revive 1” 

“ They are, I believe, sincerely attached to each other,” said 
Lady Meadowes, coldly : and began to busy herself more active- 
ly in sorting the floss silks in her work-basket. 

“ And you, dearest mother — had you never any sisters ?’! 

“None, Amy.” 

“And your father, you once told me, I remember, was a cler- 
gyman, and died when you were very young?” 

1 * 


10 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


“ Very young.” 

“You lived then, till you married, alone with your mother? 
And was she as good and tender a one as mine?” 

“ My dearest Amy,” said Lady Meadowes, with an effort which 
brought a hectic color into her usually pale face, “ there are some 
questions which it is so painful to answer, that they should never 
ho asked. Be sure that, had I wished to talk to you about my 
family, I should have done so long ago.” 

“Forgive me, mother,” cried Amy, starting up, so that the 
book she was carelessly holding, fell upon the floor, in her haste 
to seize and kiss Lady Meadowes’s delicate hand. “I will never 
speak to you about them again. But papa’s; 1 may talk to you 
of them^ without wounding your feelings; for you often ex- 
])lained to me, when I was a child, the family portraits in the 
China gallery ” 

“ The youngest among which, my dear child, dates from the 
reign of George the Second.” 

“Well, then, mother — the miniatures in the breakfast parlor I 
Among them^ there are Plymers and Cosways ; my grandfather, 
in his velvet coat and gold frogs ; and grandmamma, the last 
Lady Meadowes, in her fly-cap and powdered hair I But that 
young girl in the corner of the frame, in a beaver hat, with a 
riding-whip in her hand ?” 

“ Your father’s sister, Gertrude Meadowes.” 

“She died unmarried, then, I suppose. Was papa much at- 
tached to her ?” 

“Judge for yourself. You know his afiectionate disposition.” 

“Yet he never mentions her. He was, perhaps, too much 
affected by her death ?” 

“ She is not dead, Amy. She married Lord Davenport, and 
is still alive.’’ 

“Still alive? I have really and truly a right-down living 
aunt? — How delightful!” cried Amy, as if she had chanced upon 
some wondrous hidden treasure. 

“ You are little likely to benefit by the possession. Your fa- 
ther and the Davenports have not met for many years. They 
are not upon speaking terms.” 

“ On what account ?” 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


11 


‘‘Had your father desired you to be acquainted with the cir- 
cumstances, you would have heard them long ere this. Be satis- 
fied, darling, that he, who is the best judge of his family affairs, 
would be hurt and seriously displeased if questioned concerning 
these relationships.” 

“And are %jou^ too, angry with me, mamma?” 

“ Not in the least : for you have erred inadvertently. Were 
you to renew the subject, I should be vexed, because it would be 
in direct opposition to my wishes.” 

Again, Amy fondly kissed her mother s hand ; assuring her she 
had nothing to fear. But the restraint thus imposed upon her 
— restraint liownew to Amy — seemed to double the importance 
of the mystery. Relations wdiom she must never mention in 
her father’s presence ! Relations, so near, too, whom she was 
never to see or recognize! Tlie interdiction w^as too tantalizing. 
For some days after this perplexing conversation, she could think 
only of Lord and Lady Davenport. 

On one point, slie did not think it unlawful to gratify her cu- 
riosity. By referring to a Debi-ett’s Peerage, some ten years old, 
which graced the library table, she found that “Henry, fourth 
Baron Davenport, residing at Ilford Castle, AVestmoreland, and 
in New Street, Spring Gardens, had married the only daughter 
of Sir John Meadowes, Bart., of Meadowes Court, by whom ho 
had two sous, Hugh and Marcus, some years older than herself ; 
and a daughter, Olivia, one year younger.” Three cousin ’ ! 
Here was a discovery ! Three cousins, tolerably of her own 
age! 

She dared not, however, again appeal to her mother for infor- 
mation. She had noticed that, on the evening of their last dis- 
cussion, Lady Meadowes was unusually feverish and harassed ; 
and for worlds would she not have risked annoying her a second 
time. Amy was certain of obtaining information by applying to 
Mary Tremeuheere, who fully justified Lady Meadowes’s accu- 
sation that she wus “ a sad gossip ;” nor wmuld even Lady Har- 
riet Warneford have refused to enlighten her on any subject con- 
cerning Avhich she w'as entitled to be inquisitive. But she had 
no right to seek from others information refused by the kindest 
of mothers ; and was even more cautious than usual W'hen she 


12 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICi:, 


found herself seated in the roomy chimney-corner of her father’® 
old nurse, the wife of the parish sexton^ Neighbour Savite (or 
fSaveall, as he was called by the }>eople of the village), an aged 
crone who had outlived everything but her veneration for the 
Meadowes family, and her skill in curing the huge flitches of 
bacon which hung blackening in her vast chimney. Till now, 
Amy had been untiring in questioning the old woman, concern- 
ing the births, deaths, and marriages of Meadov/es Court; and 
the scrupulous care with which she had evaded all mention of a 
sister appertaining to her nursling — her own dear Sir Mark — 
sufficed to prove that she was cognizant of the family feud. 
Amy therefore restricted her inquiries to Neighbour Savile’s rheu- 
matics, and the old sexton’s supply of tobacco: having decided 
that, henceforward, the pedigree of the Ho'Use of Meadowes 
must rest in peace 1 


CHAPTER II. 

The spot where, next to Meadowes Court, the prepress and 
prospects of Amy were watched with the fondest partiality, was 
the Rectory. Its venerable master loved her dearly: first, 
because lie possessed a kindly-affectionate nature ; next, because 
her parents had been friendly neighbours to him for the last 
thirty years ; but more than all, because the child wliom he liad 
christened, the girl he had prepared for confirmation, was now 
a charming young woman, who made it one of her chief ])lea- 
sures in life to lighten the cares of his daughter ; whose life was 
saddened by solicitude for an only and ever-ailing child. 

For this the gray-haired Rector felt as grateful to his young 
neighbour, as though she had been his superior in years and 
faculties. For Mrs. Burton, his tenderness was tinctured with a 
degree of morbid sensibility and self-reproach. Rachel had 
been the only daughter of his widowed fireside : unusually 
lovely, unusually gifted : and he had not only spoiled her, but 
by weak and narroAV-sighted indulgence, marred her prospects 
in life. Educated in a showy London school, Rachel Henderson 
had formed connections more gay and brilliant than comported 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


13 


with her condition ; and when eventually installed under the 
humble roof of Radensford Rectoiy, and her father saw her pin- 
ing for brighter scenes, instead of endeavouring to instruct her 
in the happy art of home-keeping and home-adorning, he 
shrank from insisting on his claims to love and obedience. Ere 
the first stage of girlhood was overpast, when a pretendant to 
her hand presented himself, qualified, apparently, to place her in 
the gay worldly position she coveted, he accepted the proposals 
of Captain Burton, and even inconvenienced himself to produce 
a suitable dowry to facilitate tke marriage, solely in the hope to 
brighten the listless countenance which he could scarcely recog- 
nise as that of his darling and once-cheerful child. 

But in this, tlio weak father sinned grievously against his 
better judgment. He neglected those searching inquiries by 
means of which every parent ought to be enabled to justify liis 
sanction of a daughter’s choice : and the results were disastrous. 
Tlie smiles lie had been so eager to restore to poor Rachel’s 
countenance beamed only for a time. Haggard, careworn 
looks succeeded. The handsome and seemingly gallant and 
honourable young soldier proved to be a gambler and a sot ; 
and sad as it was to see his daughter reduced to despair by his 
untimely death, after less than three years’ wedlock, leaving her 
the maintenance of an infirm infant, Mr. Henderson returned 
thanks to Heaven for the death of his son-in-law. 

Many years had now elapsed since on her return from India, 
where Captain Burton’s death had taken place, Mrs. Burton re- 
established herself at Radensford Rectory. She was now eight- 
and-twenty, and her daughter nine years of age ; and she could 
consequently contemplate the dehut of her little favourite, Amy 
Meadowes, with something of a maternal feeling. 

“ I can’t help thinking with Mary Tremenheere, the Mea- 
doweses a little to blame in keeping that dear girl so ignorant of 
the world and its ways,” she observed to her father, while walk- 
ing home with him one evening at dusk, from Meadowes Court, 
they discussed together the increasing beauty and grace of Sir 
Mark’s daughter. « 

“But why, my dear? Amy is never likely to see much of 


14 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


society. Lady Meadowes’s health is far from strengthened. Sir 
Mark grows more and more attached to the old place. Nothing 
in the world, not even to see his beloved girl admired and 
courted, would take him to London.” 

“ I was not thinking of London.” 

“ Sir Mark detests w'atering-places ; and the idea of carrying 
his daughter to a marriage-market would revolt his fine old'* 
English spirit.” 

“ And with reason. But as you say, Lady Meadowes’s health 
is far from improved ; and in the event of her death, Sir Mark 
might marry again for the sake of an heir to his property. On 
the other hand, if Sir Mark should die, his widow and daughter 
would be left in a sadly unprotected situation.” 

“ You seem in a great hurry, my dear Rachel, to put an end to 
one or other of your friends,” said Mr. Henderson, with a smile. 

“ I, on the contrary, am inclined to assign a long life to both.” 

“May your good wdshes prosper,” rejoined his daughter. 

“ Still, when I see poor Amy so satisfied that the best interests 
of this world lie comprised within a circle of five miles round 
Meadowes Court, I cannot help wishing that Miss Honeywood 
had a little enlarged her horizon.” 

“ Time enough — time enough. "Worldly knowledge comes up- 
on us of itself, with every day we live : usually too soon, mostly 
too abundantly.” 

“ Not too soon or too abundantly for those who are fated to an 
early struggle with the evils of life,” added Mrs. Burton, in a 
low voice. “Amy’s position is a peculiar one ; and I really think 
her old enough to be forewarned of the slights she may hereafter 
have to undergo.” 

“Again I say, time enough. She may marry happily, and es- 
tablish a position of her own.” 

“Marry? — At Meadowes Court? — Dearest father, — there is 
not a single man on this side the country!” 

“ They must come then from the other, and look after our 
Sleeping Beauty in the Wood,” persisted the kindly old man. 
“I see how it is, my dear Rachel. You are longing for the sight 
of orange-blossoms and wedding favors. Meantime, let us do our 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


16 


best in assisting to amnse little Amy : that tlie pretty bird may 
not beat its wings against the cage which you have not patience 
to see so solitary.” 

It was but a few days after this conversation that Miss Mead- 
owes, who had driven over to the Rectory in her pony-chaise 
with a provision of grapes for little Sophia Burton, was sitting 
with Sophia’s mother in her sohool-room, projecting plans of 
winter charity for the poor of Radensford, of whom Mr. Hender- 
son and Sir Mark were the chief benefactors. As they talked 
together, or rather as Mrs. Burton reasoned and Amy silently ac- 
quiesced, the leaves of a sketch-book which lay on Mrs. Burton’s 
desk when surprised by her pretty visitor, were slowly turned by 
the latter ; sometimes with an admiring exclamation, always with 
an air of interest. 

The book contained a series of views and sketches of scenes in 
the Himalaya ; wild, picturesque and shaggy ; many of tliem strik- 
ingly vigorous and original. These, by the signature S. B. affixed 
to them, Amy concluded to be the production of tlie late Captain 
Burton, whose Christian name was Sylvester ; and carefully ab- 
stained from more than passing praise. Others, somewliat tamer 
in execution, bearing the name of Sharland, were evidently the 
water-color drawings of a friend. At last she came to a bold and 
admirable sketch in sepia, at the foot of which was inscribed^ 
“ Hog-hunting at Fallonnah.” And this clever group, the figures 
in which appeared to be portraits, was subscribed in quaint Ori- 
ental-looking characters, evidently traced by the artist’s brush 
rather than his pen — “ Marcus.” 

“Marcus!” exclaimed Amy, whose fancy had been previously 
captivated by the masterly execution of the sketch. “ Our fam- 
ily name! How strange! What Marcus, dear Mrs. Burton? 
Tell me the surname of your Indian Salvator Rosa?” 

Mrs. Burton, who from the first appeared embarrassed and an- 
noyed at seeing her album in the hands of Miss Meadowes, re- 
plied, almost coldly : “ That book, dear Amy, is one of tlie few 
memorials left of my married life. You have never seen it be- 
fore, because I keep it carefully locked up. For me, it is replete 
with painful associations. I took it out this morning only to as- 


16 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE, 


certain a date, wliich I thought I might find annexed to one of 
the drawings.” 

Amy instantly closed the book, and replaced it on the table. 

“Forgive my indiscretion,” said she. “You should have 
checked me at once. I fancied it was only an album, intended, 
like my own, for general entertainment. “Still,” she continued, 
after a pause, during which Mrs. Burton was occupied in replac- 
ing the book in an outer case furnished with a Bramah’s lock, 
“though I would not for worlds dwell upon a painful subject, do 
satisfy my curiosity as to whether your Marcus has anything to 
do with our family? It is such an uncommon name!” 

“ Mot t'dry uncommon,” replied Mrs. Burton, in a hesitating 
manner, as if uncertain whether to impart the information re- 
quired. 

“ This clever Marcus, then — this man of genius, who puts us 
all to shame — is not^ as I hoped, a relation ?” 

“Pardon me. The drawings were done by your cousin. Cap- 
tain Davenport.” 

“ You know liim then, dearest Mrs. Burton. You can tell me 
all about him,” said Amy, her face already in a glow of enthusi- 
asm. “How delightful ! What an unexpected pleasure !” 

“My dear Amy,” replied Mrs. Burton, evidently embarrassed, 
“ if Lady Meadowes and your father have abstained from talking 
to you about your cousins, depend on it they have good reasons 
for their silence. Ask yourself, my dear child, whether it would 
become me, distinguished as I have been by their kindness, to 
thwart their wishes for the mere sake of indulging you with a 
little idle gossip!” 

“ Mot idle gossip,” persisted Amy. “ My interest in these un- 
known relatives in an impulse of natural affection.” 

“An impulse of mere girlish curiosity,” persisted Mrs. Burton, 
more gravely than was her wont. “ Had you not accidentally 
discovered their existence, your natural affection would have re- 
mained dormant. Believe me, Amy — believe one who has lived 
and sufiered — that information obtained by unfair means unfail- 
ingly recoils on those who have outraged the rule of right in ob- 
taining it.” 


PROGRESS AKD PREJUDICE. 


17 


Amy sat rebuked and silent; too little in the habit of opposition 
to venture on further rejoinder. But she did not feel the less 
interested concerning her mysterious cousins, from having dis- 
covered in one of them so proficient an artist. 

“ Well, well ! One gets to the bottom of all secrets and mys- 
teries in time,” said she, at length, rallying her spirits ; “ and 
the enigma rarely proves worth the time one has lost in puzzling 
over it. I find, dear Mrs. Burton, that papa has even initiated 
you into the greatest of all secrets — the history of our forth- 
coming improvements at Meadowes Court.” 

Sir Mark acquainted me ye>terday with the reason of Hurst- 
ley’s frequent visits of late to Kadensford. But 1 must pause a 
little, Amy, ere I give the name of improvement to the change. 
Meadowes Court is so perfect as a whole, that I cannot bear to 
think of the slightest change.” 

“Hot when you hear that the physicians declare the damp 
vapors of the moat to be most injurious to a person so delicate as 
poor mamma ?” 

“ That point of view was never suggested. To that argument 
I bow. But how can it Amy ? Though the old moat has 
existed for centuries, one never heard it talked of, or saw it 
written of, as unwholesome ? lam afraid we are getting a little 
over-fastidious now-a-days about sanitary influences. We shall 
find at last that the whole habitable globe has scarcely a spot 
whose climate is perfectly salubrious.” 

“ But what would you have ray father do? After witnessing 
such protracted sufferings as poor mamma’s, the moment a source 
of cure or even alleviation is suggested, he can only thankfully 
comply with the instructions of her medical attendants. Dr. 
Burnaby declares that half mamma’s illness -arises from the 
miasma generated by the moat, and my father has consequently 
resolved to do what has been done in half the ancient mansions 
in the county— that is, to dry it up ; fill in the fosse, and sur- 
round the house with a pretty flower-garden, instead of that hor- 
rible old nursery for toads and tadpoles.” 

Mrs. Burton smiled. In former days, before the Meadowes 
family dreamed of dispensing with this appendage to their an- 
cient grange, she had always heard the moat described as a run- 


18 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


ning stream, "with a gravelly bottom, of which a few overgrown 
and superannuated carp were the sole inhabitants. 

“ And when are the works to commence ?” she inquired. 

“ Next week. Papa signed the contract yesterday. It will 
cost little more than two hundred pounds; and by October the 
new ground is to be ready for planting and sowing.” 

“ But Lady Meadowes, so sensitive as she is, will never be able 
to remain in t he house while besieged by 'workmen ?” 

“ Of course not. Forty or fifty men -will be at work ; and 
poor dear mamma would never stand the disturbance. For- 
tunately, Lady Harriet is going to visit the Eustaces, and has 
offered us the use of the Manor House during her absence.” 

“Good news for rae^ Amy!” replied Mrs. Burton, kindly. 
“ When only half a mile apart, we shall have no excuse for not 
meeting daily. And now, come in with me to luncheon, or poor 
Sophia will be wearying sadly for her dinner.” 


CHAPTER III. 

Enough for the present of manor-houses and rectoi-ies — ^but- 
tercups and daisies — 

My soul, turn from them ; turn we to survey 
Where London’s smoke obscures the orb of day ; 

more particularly in that narrow by-street in the parish of St. 
James — a hive of fashionable bachelors — where Marcus Daven- 
port, the sketcher of Hog-hunting at Fallonnah, had, it can 
scarcely be said “ set up his rest ’’—but sheltered his unquietness. 

There was nothing striking in the exterior of the house. The 
passage was chilled by the usual covering of half-obliterated oil- 
cloth, the stairs rendered dreary by the ordinary Persian-pat- 
terned carpet worn at the protruding edges, common to London 
lodging-houses. But the moment you turned the handle of the 
back room on the second landing, which was Captain Daven- 
port s peculiar domain, a different order of things prevailed. A 
cursory view of the room was like glancing over the first page 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


19 


of a clever new book. Your attention was riveted in a mo- 
ment. 

Not, indeed, by the splendor of the furniture ; wbicli consisted 
of a couple of incomparable lounging chairs, and divans covered 
with bright chintz, fitted into the recesses on either side tlie 
fireplace. But the pale green w'alls were hung wdth pictures by 
the same masterly hand which had supplied the sketches to Mrs. 
Burton’s portfolio, and might have entitled a professional artist 
to the equivocal honours of the R. A. ; wliile a baized door lead- 
ing to the adjoining bedroom was masked by a folding screen of 
tinted paper, adorned with croquis illustrating the works of 
Goethe, lIoiTmann, and Jean Paul Richter, original, graphic, 
powerful ; and though usually attributed by a stranger to tlie 
varied talents of several artists of genius, the fruit of the same 
insi)iration Avhich had furnished the Avails Avith their more elabo- 
rate specimens of art. 

Like many old-fashioned London houses, the room, overlook- 
ing a sooty garden, in Avhich grew nothing but broken crockery 
and sparroAvs, Avas enlarged by a boAv-AvindoAv ; in the centre of 
Avhich, sidling on its stand, Avas a tame pink cockatoo, avIioso 
parts of speech had been far more cultivated than those of many 
of its fashionable fellow-parishioners ; Avhile on the hearth-rug 
lay a grey Skye terrier, far gone in years, apparently on 
such terms of amity Avith the rival pet, as to have over- 
come in its favour the instinctive antagonism between fur and 
feathers. 

The adornments of Mark’s domicile Avere of a suggestive order ; 
a few clever statuettes on brackets, and one or tAvo antiques col- 
lected on his travels. The only ornament on his table, besides a 
simple black marble inkstand and shabby old Russia-leather blot- 
ting book, much the Averse for use, Avere a brasier for burning ju- 
niper berries, and a cracked old Flemish glass, containing a sickly 
sprig of rosemary. 

But the atmosphere of the chamber aa'rs pleasant and Avell- 
regulated. In winter, a Avood fire blazed brightly ; in summer, 
thick green blinds excluded the sun. Many a fine gentleman is- 
suing from the lofty mansions of May Fair AA'as heard to exclaim, 
on sinking into one of Davenport’s easy chairs, “By Jove ! Mark, 


20 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


you take good care of yourself. This is the most comfortable 
room in Europe.” 

What right, however, had he to be comfortable — that Paria of 
a younger brother ! Cheerless chambers in one of the Inns of 
Court would liave better fitted his position than all this Sybarite 
indulgence. A difterence in age of less than a year rendered 
him tlie subaltern of a brother inti tied to be nursed in the lap 
of luxury, and rejoice in marrow and fatness. But the 'barrier 
was as insurmountable as though a century, in place of eleven 
months, intervened between the events which gave an heir to 
Ilford Castle, and a second olive-branch to its owner. 

To the parents, the mother being still young, with the milk of 
human kindness yet unsoured by the storms of life, the two 
babes, rolling upon the lawn in their wdiite tunics, possessed an 
equal charm. If either, the younger was preferred ; as more lov- 
ing and more intelligent. The boys were commended, at five 
years old, to the care of the same nursery governess — at eight, to 
the birch of the same tutor ; and at eleven, were despatched to- 
gether to Eton, where the precocity of Marcus placed him in the 
upper school, side by side with his brother. Both were “ Mr. 
Davenport.” There was nothing in the senior and junior at- 
tached to their patronymic sufficing to denote that one was pre- 
destined to feed upon the corn, wine, and oil of this world — the 
other, upon its husks. 

Hugh was reserved and gentle; Marcus wild and clever. But 
both -were gentlemanly in mind and deportment ; and as kindly 
disposed towards each other, as the struggle and uproar of a pub- 
lic school Vould allow them to exhibit. Each had his bosom 
friend who was the, natural enemy of the other, and created 
feuds between them. But during their holidays, at Ilford Cas- 
tle, their tempers and pursuits were as uniform as if they were 
fated to live in Arcadia, nurtured on the honey of Hymettus. 

Not till the year of Hugh’s emancipation from Eton did it seem 
to occur to Lord Davenport that the future destinies of the boys 
would be as dissimilar in quality as gold and lead. His lordship 
made the discovery, perhaps, because the outstanding schoolboy- 
debts of the younger doubled those of the heir-apparent. Per- 
haps because, till within the last six months, the fortune of his 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


21 


maiden sister, amounting to something above two thousand a- 
year, had been regarded in the family as the future inheritance 
of her godson, Mark. But Miss Davenport, always crotchety, 
had chosen at forty -five, to replace her pet marmozets and Blen- 
heim spaniels by a two-legged darling — a sober widower, blest 
with a numerous brood, who speedily superseded her nephew in 
her unsettled affections and unsettled property. It was clear, 
therefore, that poor Marcus would have to provide for himself. 
Half his mother’s fortune of twenty thousand pounds was all ho 
had to depend upon ; and that only at her decease. 

Lord Davenport, who from the period of his marriage, had 
been gradually progressing, or shall we call it retrograding, from 
the poetry to the prose of life, was consequently forced to study 
the future interests of his progeny. Ten years before, he had 
been proudest of Hugh — fondest of Mark. Now, perhaps, he 
was fondest of Hugh, who in his nonage had given him least 
anxiety, and proudest of Mark ; of whose abilities, even from the 
masters who denounced him as a scapegrace, ho received the 
highest commendation. But his lordship was fortunately of too 
practical a nature not to perceive the fruitlessness of talent com- 
bined with moral shortcoming ; and was as little inclined to fore- 
see in his family a "William Shakspere, or even a Goldsmith or 
Sheridan, as if a shadowy view of the Fleet Prison loomed in the 
background. He accordingly favoured his younger born, pre- 
viously to his departure for the University, with a didactic lec- 
ture as dry as sawdust ; nearly as circumstantial as a Bridge Avater 
Treatise, and not quite so edifying. Lord Davenport Avarned his 
son against NeAvmarket and tailors’ bills, much as his OAvn fa- 
ther, forty years before, had Avarned himself against infidelity 
and claret. Among his interdictions, hoAvever, there Avas less 
said about lounging and cigars than was altogether judicious : 
just as a man in fear of the plague would scorn to flee aAvay be- 
fore the measles. 

In spite, hoAvever, of the omission, Marcus, for several terms, 
did himself the utmost credit. Wonders were predicted of him. 
He Avas recognised in the University, as the most brilliant orna- 
ment of the debating club, and booked for the highest honours. 
On the return of the tAvo brothers to Ilford Castle for the long 


22 


PROGUKSS AND PREJUDICE. 


A 

vacation, Hugh boasted of Mark to his parents, like some fond 
father parading his only son. He even implored Lord Daven- 
port to retain for his brother the seat in Parliament wliich was 
keeping -warm for his less talented sdf. Nor were the Daven- 
ports, who had long perceived that this amiable eldest hope of 
theirs was as shy as a girl, altogether disinclined to listen to the 
suggestion. 

But alas ! 

The third term, came a frost, a chilling frost. 

The hare, lazy and self-confiding, had allowed itself to he over- 
taken by the tortoise. Partly because irritated by this unex- 
pected check, and partly because, at twenty. Nature was work- 
ing her way, Marcus Davenport now enlisted himself in a joyous 
band of University rebels, beyond all hope from secondary pun- 
ishment ; and in due time. Lord Davenport was respectfully ap- 
prised of the rustication of his second son. 

The worldly-minded father was furious — thwarted in his pro- 
jects — galled in his selt-love. He had bragged too largely con- 
cerning the acquirements of the handsome scapegrace; and his 
lordship’s vanity suffered still more keenly than his paternal af- 
fections. It was only by the prayers and entreaties of Hugh ho 
was prevented from dealing so stern a measure of Avrath upon 
the delinquent, as the pride of Marcus would scarcely over have 
forgiven. 

“ Send me into the army, if you are so ashamed of me that 
you wish to lose sight of me,” was the young man’s dutiful re- 
joinder to even a modified explosion of his lordsliip’s ire, who 
eagerly profited by the hint, and despite the entreaties of the 
brother, and the tears of the mother, Marcus was speedily gazet- 
ted to an India Pegiment, and before Mark Davenport had spent 
three months in the land of palanquins, his regiment was on ac- 
tive service in one of those periodical wars which, by an ample 
libation of British blood, propitiate the outraged genius of the 
soil. - 

^ Young Davenport, fortunate in a brave and able colonel, as 
well as in a commander-in-chief whose laurels are still verdant, 
was fortunate also in opportunities. In the course of the two 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


23 


following years, his rapid promotion was justified by honorable 
mention in more than one despatch. Twice had his mother the 
comfort of a burst of tears in the arms of her elder son, when, 
after a severe action, Hugh Davenport was able to point out to 
her the name they loved, mot in the list of casualties, but among 
the officers recommended to the notice of the Horse Guards. 

Still, the reasons which justified Lord Davenport for having 
launched his son in an arduous profession, had not ceased to 
exist. Not only was the account of the young lieutenant at his 
agent’s constantly overdrawn, but Marcus had found occasion to 
signify to the head of the family, through his brother, the neces- 
sity under which he found himself of anticipating his annual 
allowance. For a time, the kind-hearted Hugh contrived, with 
the assistance of his father’s banker, to prevent the bills drawn 
upon Lord Davenport from reaching his hands and provoking his 
displeasure. But his means were limited ; and a second claim 
for five hundred pounds brought down all the thunder of Jupiter 
Davenport on the heads of both his sons. 

Searching inquiries brought to light that the budding hero on. 
whom tlie 'Lord of Ilford Castle was beginning to waste a 
thousand chimeric hopes, was an extravagant profligate. Captain 
Burton, the wildest of his brother officers, had, it appeared, 
initiated him into the fatal mysteries of play: and when, at 
length, at tlve close of the wmr which w’as the means of securing 
for him the company left vacant by tlie death of that dang(frou3 
friend. Lord Davenport obtained from the commander-in-chief 
leave of absence for his son, it was rather with the view of 
breaking off the fatal connections he had formed in India, tiian 
of indulging the earnest desire of his wife and elder-born, to 
embrace the prodigal -from whom they had now been six years 
estranged. 

' Mark’s arrival was the signal for home-happiness and family 
festivity, now becoming rare at Ilford Castle. Lord Davenport 
was a theoretical agriculturist, and the improvement of Ids 
estates occupied his whole time, and absorbed all his money; 
till, at last, every hour and guinea seemed wasted that was not 
devoted to the interests of his landed property. 

At no time of his life a pleasant companion, his lordship was 


24 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


becoming so completely a clod of the valley, that Hugh Daven- 
port would have seen as little of home as though he too were 
lighting in the Punjaub, but for the sake of the gentler and kinder 
parent so much, in need of his society. Hot that his mother had 
ever appealed to his sympathy. No amount of suffering would 
have wrung out of her heart one disrespectful word concerning 
the husband she had sworn to honour and obey. 

Country neighbours and occasional guests at Ilford Castle were 
heard, indeed, to whisper that Lady Davenport was nearly as 
cold and silent as her husband ; and scarcely a visitor ever 
issued from the gates, but felt relieved from a disagreeable con- 
straint. For such casual observers were not likely to ascribe the 
frequent changes of colour of that mild pale face to repressed sen- 
sibility ; and few surmised that the woman, whose rank and 
fortune appeared so enviable, had been through life a martyr to 
Duty. 

Her brother — ^her only brother — having shortly after her own 
marriage taken to himself a wife in direct opposition to the will 
of his august brother-in-law, Lord Davenport had intimated to 
Sir Mark Meadowes that, neither he nor Lady Meadowes would 
be received at Ilford Castle, or allowed the smallest intercourse 
with his sister or her children ; a threat to which he had adhered 
with a degree of vindictive obstinacy, such as the inconsistency 
of modern society rarely calls into play. 

It is true that circumstances favoured their estrangement. 
They were never accidentally thrown in each other’s way. The 
Meadowses lived in the strictest retirement; and but for the 
yearnings of Lady Davenport’s tender heart after her only 
brother and his offspring, they might easily have been forgotten 
at Ilford Castle. 


CHAPTEPw IV. 

One half the twelvemonth’s leave of absence accorded to Cap- 
tain Davenport at the end of the campaign, on the usual plausible 
plea of ill-health, had just expired, \vhen his brother Hugh 


TKOGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


25 


walked one morning into the baclielor domicile already described : 
it would be* incorrect to say to breakfast — for, as regarded hours, 
and more especially meal-liours, Marcus w'as as little to be relied 
upon as if still a campaigner. But Mr. Davenport was fertunato 
in finding him seated before his steaming coflee and smoking 
pillau:; and their colloquy was all the more sociable for the cover 
instantly laid for the unexpected guest by Captain Davenport’s 
incomparable soldier servant. 

Astonishing how much the exercise of the masticatory func- 
tions tends to forward despatch of small-talk ! Hugh, who was 
fresh from Ilford Castle, where he had been spending the recess, 
announced that Marcus had grievously oflended his father by 
keeping aloof from the family circle. 

*‘I can’t help it! His lordship must fume away his wrath,” 
said Captain Davenport, in reply to his brother’s mild remon- 
strances. , “It would have bee«i gross hypocrisy on my part to go. 
I am bored out of all human patience at Ilford. At Ilford yon 
dare not say your soul’s your own. At least, I can answer for 
myself, that with ray father’s eye upon me, I never feel the lawful 
proprietor of either soul or body. On no subject do Ave think 
alike ! He told me, the last time there was a flare-up between 
us, that I was no Davenport — that I was a MeadoAves at heart. 
I belieA'c he said it chiefly to Avound my poor mother’s feelings. 
But, thank Heaven, she only looked tlio more fondly at me, and 
seemed gratified by tlie accusation.” 

“But Avhat had proAmked him to such a remark?” 

“What? — because when he twitted me with wasting in riot 
and excess Avhat he was pleased to term the splendid abilities Ayith 
Avhich Hature has gifted me, I respectfully replied that so far 
from Avasting them, I had every encouragement given me by my 
friends to obtain a handsome competence as an artist.” 

“ On Avhich, alas ! you parted in mutual displeasure, and have 
not met since! and here am I, come as ” 

“ As an emissary from my fafher ?” g 

“As a brother Avho loves you better than all your friends and 
toadies put together,” replied Hugh, Avarmly. “Marcus, you 
are not just.” 

“Yes, I am, for I am ashamed of myself,” cried the younger 
- 2 


‘26 


Progress and prejudice. 


brother, extending his hand. “Wait a moment till I am cool 
again, and we will start fair.” 

And having rung for the table to be cleared^ and dipped hia 
hands in a finger-glass. Captain Davenport Avheeled round his 
arni-cliair towards tlie divan by the fireside, on which Hugli had 
already taken up his position. 

“ In one word then, Marcus,” resumed his brother, “ my 
mission liere is to persuade you to accept a third of the allow- 
ance of six hundred a-year made me by my father; which, 
with the two hundred he gives you, will bring our income to a 
level — four hundred a-piece.” 

“ For what do you take me, Hugh ?” — cried Marcus, drawing 
up to his highest altitude. 

“For a kind brother, if you accede to my proposal. Believe 
me, you 'svill do nothing with my father.” 

“And you consider that a sufficient reason for me to rob you 
of your birthright?” 

“ With four hundred a-year, I shall liave enough, and more 
than enough, for my needs. Were my father to alloAV me the 
thousand or fifteen hundred per annum which you and your 
friends sometimes say it is his duty to do, I should not know 
what to do with it. I might become a prodigal, ora miser.” 

“Neither the one nor the other. You would-remain w^iat 
you are : — an excellent fellow — considering everybody’s comfQrt 
before your own.” 

But Marcus had no leisure just then for the continuation of 
his panegyric, for the room-doorwvas burst open by wdiat at first 
sight ai)peared to be a gentleman disguised as a Turk in a mas- 
querade costume, who had grossly over-dressed his part. A vest 
and tunic of an extravagant sliawl-pattern, w'ere cinctured at the 
w'aist with a scarlet cord and tassels, over long, loose red trow- 
sers, and yellow morocco slippers, crowned by a richly-embroi- 
dered fez ; from which escaped long auburn locks, intermingled 
with most Saracenic whiskers* meeting below the chin of the 
wearer. 

Holding a cherry-stick pipe in one hand, and the Times news- 
paper in the other, this unceremonious visitor threw himself on 
*cie of the divans near the fireplace ; and, having tossed out of 


PROGRESS AKD PREJUDICE. 


27 


his eyes the dishevelled locks blown into them by the rapidity 
of his ascent in mounting the stairs, he nodded familiarly to 
Hugh Davenport, and saluted the younger brother by the name 
of “old fellow;” a mode of address whose comprehensive 
tenderness is equivalent to the “wio/i of a French 

elegant. 

Hamilton Dre-we, the intruder -who, from his domicile on the 
first floor, had thus unceremoniously invaded his neighbour’s 
territories, would, however, have scorned the name of “ elegant.'^'' 
Though so extravagantly accoutred, he flattered himself he had 
a soul above buttons — even though they were of cinquecento 
fashion or wrought by Froment Meurice. Rich in personal gifts, 
and tolerably clever, this young gentleman might have formed a 
valuable member of society, had he not emerged into the Lon- 
don crowd at a moment when the white-cravated Brnmmel 
school which succeeded to the white-coated Sir John Lade 
school, had just abdicated in favour of the eccentric man of 
genius, copied after the pattern of Vivian Grey. 

Hamilton Drewe was early an orphan, and born to the enjoy- 
ment of an estate of nearly five thousand a-year in the sturdy 
county of Northumberland ; his guardianship had been unluckily 
consigned to the hands of a distant relative, an old bachelor, 
Afedded by a morganatic marriage to the wdiole Nine Muses 
at once ; who looked upon literary renown as the highest attain- 
able distinction. Instead of bringing up his w'ard to be a useful 
man in his generation, qualified to reconcentrate a property in- 
jured by neglect and a long minority, Wroughton Drewe, Esq., 
F.R.S., F.A.S., F.L.S. and all the rest of it— had taught him to 
despise provincial life ; to denounce country gentlemen as clods 
of the valley ; and to prefer public scholarship and an assumed 
sympathy in the opening of barrows and collecting of scarabasi, 
to the legislation of his county, or his country, and the “ better 
regulation” of himself and his estates. 

Instead, therefore, of sending his young relative to one of our 
public schools, Mr. Drewe fancied he was doing better for his 
intellects and morals, by placing him under the care of a forty- 
donkey-power pedagogue of a private tutor. At sixteen, he w'as 
removed from the narrow village circle to which he had been an 


28 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


object of adulation, to a German university, to bo rendered 
muzzy with Hegelian philosophy, beer, tobacco, and aesthetics : 
nor was it wonderful that, at twenty, he should return to tlio 
hands of his cousin Wroughton, with a smattering of universal 
knowledge, and in his portmanteau a thin quarto of poetry, 
original, and translated. , / 

How, Drewe the elder was a man of Bloomsbury; in his 
youth a working placeman, but long since retired on a pension 
and a moderate competence, to find recreation in remodelling 
his education by the lectures of the Hoyal Institution, and the 
sittings of the Horticultural, Linnfean, Zoological, Philological, 
Ethnological, Medico-botanical, Entomological, and Heaven 
knows how many more learned societies ; where he fancied him- 
self as much instructed as men really instructed find themselves 
amused. At all events, he acquired the cant of scientific knowl- 
edge; as the connoisseurs of the last century, so ably described 
by Goldsmith and Sterne, acquired the jargon of criticism. A 
few dinners, in the course of the season, to the sapient profes- 
sors rejoicing in the appendix to their names of all the letters in 
the alphabet conjoined with that of F, obtained for him a repu- 
tation of Mec£enas-ship. And though he would have been puz- 
zled to classify the groundsel springing within the rusty palisades 
of Bloomsbury Square, or the aphides sulkily fattening thereon, 
he passed, from Museum street to the London University, as an 
embodied Cosmos. Rusty-coated literati inclined their heads 
reverentially when they heard mention of the name of Mr. 
Wroughton Drewe. 

By way of introducing his rich and accomplished admii-able 
Crichton of a ward to the J)eau monde,,*\\Q put up his name at 
the Alfred, and one or two equally somniferous clubs, and pro- 
posed him as a member of several learned societies ; and great 
was his mortification when, some months afterAvards, the erratic 
genius suddenly started for the East, in a fit of disgust at the 
severe castigation inflicted by the critics upon his maiden volume. 
The ex-guardian consoled himself, as best he might, by the con- 
viction that he Avould return from the Cataracts of Upper Egypt, 
a la Byron, exalted in importance by an Oriental beard, and a 
forthcoming canto of a new Childe Harold. 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. -29 

Kothing of the kind. The yonng gentleman brought only a 
few shawls, tobacco pouches, and papooshes; with his drago- 
man’s and courier’s accounts, to be audited, and a constitution 
considerably enfeebled by the debilitating fever of the Levant. 

He had, however, established in the interim a species of repu- 
tation. He had been called in literary journals “that enterpris- 
ing traveller, Mr. Hamilton Drewe” — nay, in a journal seldom 
read except by the victims of its sanguinary articles, that “prom- 
ising scholar,” that “distinguished and rising poet;” and he be- 
came consequently still more enamoured of himself than when 
simply patted on the back by Bloomsbury 'Square. 

The promising scholar and distinguished poet considered it duo 
to his reputation to give literary breakfasts and literary dinners : 
sedulously frequented by certain pseudo scholars and self-styled 
men of letters ; wdio fooled him to the top of his bent^ — called 
him Byron — Lamartine — Eothen — drank his claret, drew on his 
banker, and when his back w^as turned, laughed him to scorn. 
In Hunt and Roskell’s bill, there appeared to his debit an item 
of six silver-gilt standishes. Six! Could the ink consumed in 
inditing “ Blossoms of the Soul,” have demanded the use of six 
standishes ? No ! but the small reviewers did — who had wrapped 
up that delicate and well-puffed effusion in the cotton of their 
bespoken praise 

The youthful bard, or as the Knights of the Standish styled 
liim, the youth^^l darling of the Muses, had not thought it neces- 
sary to re-explore, on his return to Christendom, the “ wilds of 
Bloomsbury.” . Having despatched to his ex-guardian his tribu- 
tary offering of papyrus, and a MS. or two purchased for its 
weight in gold, at one or other of the Levantine monasteries 
which Mr. Curzon’s interesting work had brought into notice, 
he issued strict orders to the Giannino whom Byron’s example 
had erected into his Groom of the Chambers, never to admit 
into them a bald-headed, hook-nosed elderly gentleman, bearing 
his own name and the physiognomy of a vulture digesting. 

In exchange for what he renounced in this erudite privy coun- 
cillor, the incipient Byron, devoted to the pursuit of literary dis- 
tinction under difficulties, had acquired only the friendship of 
Marcus Davenport. And to a man like Drewe, it was invalu- 


30 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


able. Marcus was an unsparing hater of humbug ; — a sworn 
enemy to impostors. He would not have toadied a king for his 
throne : far less a reviewer for his praise. Least of all, any of 
the six bestan dished editors, unheard of in the world of letters 
save by hapless authors of volumes of Occasional Poems. 


CHAPTER y. 

But it is almost time to return Into Gloucestershire ; where 
incidents of unusual interest were disturbing the even tenour of 
the ways of Meadowes Court. 

In Amy Meadowes’s monotonous life it was an event to mi- 
gi*ate from home even to the distance of a couple of miles. Sir 
Mark was to remain on the spot, as overseer of the works. But 
the transfer of the invalid to her new domicile was not effected 
without some anxiety both to her liusband and child. 

To their great sui-prise. Lady Harriet was standing under the 
porch of Radensford Manor to receive her gnests. 

“ Yes, it is even so,” said she, offering her arm to assist Lady 
Meadowes into the drawing-room, where a oozy sofa drawn 
near the fire, awaited her. “After all my fine professions of 
making you lady-paramount here, dear Lady Meadowes, I must 
claim your hospitality. I am prevented going to my sister 
Louisa by illness in her house. So far from receiving me, slie 
has sent me her son William, to be out of the way of the fever 
which is raging around them. Had she wished me, however, to 
keep the engagement, I should not have thought of taking the 
poor boys into the danger of infection.” 

“But under all these circumstances, we shall perhaps be in 
your Avay ?” said her visitor. “ The carriage is not yet unpack- 
ed. Nothing would be easier than to return, and postpone our 
undertaking for a time.” 

“Nothing would be more ditfioult, if you intesd to complete 
it before the frosty weather sets in. And why, my dear friend? 
Surely you know enough of this rambling old house to admit 
that it contains three or four spare bedrooms ; and that nothing 


PnOaPwESS AND PREJUDICE. 


SI 


could delight me half so much as to have them occupied by you 
and yours.” 

“ Then Ave are all happj^, and the thing is settled,” interrupted 
Amy. “ Our Ausit to Radensford will be far pleasanter than we 
had a right to expect.” 

Then, recollecting that Lady Harriet’s nephew, William Eus- 
tace, who had occasionally Ausited the Manor House as long as 
she could remember, Avas noAv a young man of four-and-tAventy, 
a Member of Parliament, and a star in the fashionable Avorld, 
it suddenly occurred to her tliat she had said too much ; and, 
blushing and confused, she made matters Avorse by endeavouring 
to modify her frank declaration. 

■She could have withdraAvn her compliment in all sincerity on 
the morroAV. After an evening spent in disjointed chat in Lady 
Harriet’s old-fashioned draAving-roora, Amy felt that the Mr. 
Eustace, Avho Av^as no longer called William in the family, was 
anything but an acquisition. He was either dull, or supercilious. 
She Avasted some time in endeaA’Ouring to find out icJiich. Eor 
though silent and unsympathetic, he Avas too good-looking and 
too Avell-bred to be an object of indifiereiice. The result of her 
cogitations was, that it Avas a pity so handsome a young man 
should be so thoroughly disagi’eeable. But Amy’s cheerful tem- 
per was not long influenced by the diyness of their unexpected 
inmate. She proceeded to amuse the little boj^s wlien they Avero 
released from the school-room, and to arrange Lady MeadoAves’s 
Avork-table and sofa, exactly as if he had not been present. 

To do him justice, he intruded as little as possible into the 
family circle. Off at early morning Avith the keepers to shoot 
OA’-er the Avide-lying farms of the Manor, he Avas never visible 
till dinner-, to the hilarity of AA’liidi, he contributed about as 
much as tlm statue of the commandant Avould liaA^e done to the 
supper of Don Juan. Even at the tea-table, Avith tlie honours 
of Avhich Amy Avas entrusted, Avhile her mother and Lady 
Harriet crooned together over their household interests and 
parish gossip, instead of making the smallest effort to entertain 
tiie fair young guest of the house, he retreated to a distant sofa 
with a reading lamp and a pamphlet. 

Marvellous, indeed, AAmnld it have appeared to Amy, had any 


32 


PROGRESS AND PREJfDICE. 


one informed her that this silent yonng gentleman passed for fi 
Phoenix in his own county ; and was classed, even in London, 
among the “men of wit and pleasure about town.” His abili- 
ties, unquestionably above par, had been polished by what Great 
Britain calls a first-rate education, viz., a public school and the 
university ; — on learning w'hich, Amy wms disposed to attribute 
liis dnlness to an overweight of classics and mathematics. 

She judged him wrongfully. Young Eustace was no pedant. 
His present moroseness arose from a certain lecture by which 
his aunt had signified, on his arrival, that she considered his 
heart in considerable danger from tlie attractions of a simple 
country girl ; — A m heart — for which Clarissa Harlowe, in all the 
glory of her beauty and heiress-ship, would have had as little 
attraction as her dairy-maid ! Even in the midst of her flurries 
and fusses at the compulsory change of her plans, Lady Har- 
riet had found time to exact from her nephew that he would not 
endeavour to turn the head of the rustic beauty under her roof 
by unmeaning attentions ; which after all would possibly end in 
his own entanglement. 

“ Fear nothing, my dear aunt,” was his scornful reply. “ I 
promise you that your partridges and pheasants are the only 
victims likely to signalise my sojourn at Eadensford.” 

“ That’s well — ^that’s well, — that’s all I wanted to hear,” said 
she, accepting at once his self-confident assertion. “ For I am 
too well acquainted with my sister Louisa’s principles, to hope 
for forgiveness if I allowed you to form an attachment to Amy 
Headowes.” 

“ To tlie daughter of an old baronet? "Why v/hat am I my- 
self but a baronet’s son?” • ' ' 

“Ho matter. Louisa and I understand each other. I know her 
views for you ; and shall certainly do nothing to thwart them.” 

As might be expected. Lady Harriet’s officiousness and super- 
fluous prohibitions secured the usual results. Amy,- who would 
have been mystified and probably disgusted by Mr. Eustace’s 
habitual style of London trifling and flirtation, was piqued by 
his incivility. While on the other hand, the self-sufflcient Club- 
lounger, who would have resented the corvee of making the 
agreeable to a country Miss, began to fancy that the fruit must 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


33 


be indeed golden, when so dragonised by his dictatorial annt. 
He was startled to find his apparent incivility fail to hufniliate 
as he thouglit it onglit the untutored country girl ; nor could he 
help continually speculating on the influence of his conduct on 
her countenance and manner. He always watched her. Even 
when beating a covert at three miles’ distance from the Manor 
House, he found himself wondering "what Amy was doing by 
the fireside ; and how she managed to get through the morn- 
ing amidst skeins of silk and balls of worsted, enlivened only 
by such wearisome companionship as that of his perpendiculaJ 
kinswoman. 

One day, it suddenly crossed his mind that some trick or arti- 
fice 'W’as concealed under the sage counsels of Lady Harriet. 
Conscious how deepl}" he was touched by the singular loveliness 
and naivete of Amy Meadowes, it occurred to him that this might 
be the end Lady Harriet had intended to accomplish. The visit 
of the Meadoweses to Radensford might have been pre-arranged, 
lie, lie^ the sapient and fashionable William Eustace, Esq., M.P. 
was perhaps the dupe of a confederation of rustics — a fox caught 
in a mole trap ! 

When this surmise presented itself first to his mind, in the 
course of one of his snip.e-shooting excursions in the forest of 
Burdans, he happened to be almost within view of poor Amy’s 
birthplace; and, as if prif^lced by a spur, he suddenly started olf 
in the directio-n of Meadowes Court. In his whelphood, he had 
been a favourite wfith the sonless old baronet. He would go and 
ask him for some breakfast, and ascertain whether there were 
really Avorks and workmen in the case, to account for the dis- 
persion of the family. 

Long before he reached the grey -walls of the ancient Stamm- 
Ilans^ the question was answered. The road was cut up, and 
unsightly with rufis. Muddy planks were lying about ; a fishy, 
foetid odour pervaded the atmosphere. Dirty-looking labourers 
were driving barrows, or wielding shovels ; and in coasting the 
mansion in order to reach the entrance-bridge, Mr. Eustace 
obtained an enlivening glimpse of a muddy fosse, whose filthy 
surface, partially clothed with coarse herbage, decayed weeds, 
gaping blue cockle-shells and broken crockery, was quite as vex- 

2 ^ 


34 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


atious to the eye as its emanations were unsatisfactory to the 
smell. 

The young sportsman began to feel that he might as well have 
pursued his sport in the forest. It was however too late to 
think of retreat. Sir Mark who, in his old green cutaway and 
well-worn flat straw hat, was inspecting the unloading of the 
earth-carts, a few of which had discharged their burden at the 
further extremity of the moat, was already hurrying forward to 
meet his visitor, shading his eyes from the morning sun to assist 
his scrutiny. Eustace was forced to advance; with far less 
alacrity however, than the pointers, who seemed to perceive 
that they had reached a land of plenty — whether as regarded its 
kennel or its coverts. 

“ Why ’tis — yet no, it can’t be — ^little Willy Eustace — that is, 
young Mr. Eustace!” cried the frank old baronet, seizing the 
hand which his visitor shyly extended tcwards him. “ Well, 
God bless me this is a-surprise! We haven’t met — let me see, 
’twas when I was serving as High Sheriff — not these six years 
— eh ? And heartily glad I am to see you again,” he continued, 
giving a rough shake to the hand he had grasped so firmly 
during the progress of his reminiscences. “I’m only sorry that 
Lady Meadowes and my daughter should be absent, to make an 
old man’s welcome less acceptable. But, as you see, the works 
going on here are of a nature to drive ’em away.” 

Mr. Eustace could almost have fancied that the motives of his 
visit were discovered. 

“But now I tliink on’t,” resumed Sir Mark, interrupting his 
train of reflections, “you must be staying with Lady Harriet? 
You are perhaps in tlie house with them at Radensford ?” 

“I left the Manor, Sir, only a couple of hours ago; and have 
the pleasure of assuring you that, when we parted last night. 
Lady Meadowes and your daughter were in excellent health and 
spirits.” 

“ That’s right — that’s well I And what’s again right and well, 
your news will spare me a trot to the Manor this afternoon, for 
which I could ill spare time ; though, to do the old shooting- 
PQny justice, slio carries me to the village in less than a quarter 
of an hour.” 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


B5 

visit of inspection, I can assure yon, is at all necessary,” 
rejoined Mr. Eustace, cheerfully. “ I arn here to answer every 
question you raay be inclined to ask.” 

“Then let ’em be asked and answered over the breakfast- 
table,” said Sir Mark, cordially. “ The bell rang five minutes 
jiist as I spied you. But a fresh supply of steaks and hot 
cakes will soon set the matter to rights. Here you! John— 
Manesty 1 — Take Mr. Eustace’s dogs round to the stable- 
yard ; unless,” he continued, w'ith a sly smile, “ petticoat- 
government being in interregnum here just now, you like to 
iiave the poor fellows with you in the breakfast parlour ?” 

The dogs being Lady Harriet’s and not his own, Mr. Eustace 
preferred seeing them consigned to their proper place; and 
having given up his gun to one of the keepers, he followed Sir 
Jilark ink) the cheerful breakfast-room, liberally supplied with - 
Cold turkeypoult and home-smoked ham, pressed beef and mealy 
potatoes, liot bread, marmalade, and a smoking broil ; — all that 
maketh glad the heart of sportsman, and put to the blush the 
meagre, dowager fare of Radensford Manor. 

. Before Sir Mark had despatched his first bowl of tea, he ac- 
quainted his visitor with all he had to tell concerning the 
nature and motive of his improvements; adding a declaration 
that, had he known how lonesome he should feel in this first 
separation from his womankind, he would have seen the moat 
farther, before he thought of filling it up. Then came the 
avowal that the thought of filling it would never have occurred 
to him, but for the influence it was supposed to exercise over 
the health of the best and dearest of v»nves. 

“You’re not old enough,” added Sir Mark, “to understand 
that ^ort of thing at present. It takes years and years, Mr. 
Eustace, to ripen one’s boyish notions of sentimental love into 
the right-d(^n manly feeling that binds a man to the wife of 
liis choice, and the fireside gladdened by their children. But 
when the time comes. Sir, for you to make the discovery, mind 
my words, ’twill be the best-spent and happiest day of your 
life.” 

The young snipe-shooter, who for twenty minutes past had 
been getting smaller and smaller in his shoes, overpowered by 


PROGRESS AXD PREJUDICE. 


the hearty spirit of his liost, his liberal sentiments and liberal 
housekeeping, enhanced by the fine old plate, china and pictures, 
which implied small need to descend to stratagem to secure a 
l)artner for the daughter and heiress of the house, gave a timid 
assent. At length, having breakfasted as became one of the 
old baronets whose bronzed faces smiled upon him from the 
walls of the breakfast-parlour, rather than as befitted a fas- 
tidious young Pelham of St. James’s street, he took pity on tlio 
evident desire of his ho.^t to return to his workmen, and rose to 
depart : or perhaps took pity on himself — to wdiom Sir Mark, 
cheered by a copious succession of the “ cups that cheer but not 
inebriate,” insisted on showing and explaining the system of the 
forcing-pumps, by which the still moist moat had been partially 
desiccated. 

“ Unless I am back by twelve o’clock,” he said, in apology 
for his hasty departure, “Lady Harriet, who is not aware of my 
intended visit, will be anxious and fidgety.” 

“ Ay, that’s the worst of my dear kind old neighbour — a sad 
fidget — a sad fidget !” cried Sir Mark. “ I can’t understand for 
my part, how she ever came to admit you under her roof, com- 
ing, as you say you do, from a district where fever is raging. 
Why, bless your soul ! Lady Harriet would run away from tho 
nettle rash, if old Burnaby took it into his head to make her 
believe it was infectious.” 

Mr. Eustace endeavoured to make him understand that his visit 
to Eadensford Manor was thoroughly independent of the will and 
choice of his aunt. But Sir Mark was too much pre-engrossed 
to listen. His thoughts were divided between the wagons of 
earth he saw slowly approaching over the turf, and the assur- 
ances to be conveyed to his wife and daughter, that (please God, 
and Lady Harriet permitting), he would meet his daughter in the 
family pew the following Sunday, and “ take his Sunday beef and 
pudden, afterwards, at the Manor.” Sir Mark proposed the plan 
as frankly as he -would have wished such a scheme to be proposed 
to himself. The old fellow’s heart was as open as his hand. He 
could understand no motive for demur in matters of hospitality. 

By the time Eustace had traversed half a mile of the jolly old 
baronet’s property, on his way back to the narrow estate and 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


37 


penurious habits of the Warnefords, lurfelt lowered in liis own 
estimation. Absurd, to suppose that the proprietors of such a 
house as Meadowes Court could descend to paltry plotting'in 
behalf of their daughter; even were she a thousand times less 
charming than the pretty Amy whom he had been intent on 
keeping at a distance. As he glanced at the autumnal rose 'which 
8ir Mark had snatched from the porch, and charged him to 
convey to Iiis wife, 'with his best love and blessing, and which was 
already fading in the button-hole of his shooting-jacket, he began 
to be aware that, though a very fine gentleman in Rotten Row, 
he was but a poor creature now that his varnished boot was 
exchanged for a shooting-shoe ; and its sole planted on honest 
wholesome turf, a hundred miles distant from the sooty Iierbago 
of Hyde Park. 


CHAPTER YI. 

“ Ho ! don’t put it into water to refresh it, please,” — said Amy, 
on receiving from him, on his return, her father’s message and 
flower, — to convey to Lady Meadowes, who was undergoing one 
of her “poorly” days, and had not 3"et made her appearance. — 
“My mother would prefer to have it in its present state, — exactly 
as it Avas sent by papa. Particularly, accompanied by such a 
pleasant message. Sunday dinner with us ! We shall all be so 
happy ! It seems so long since Ave left him. After all, Mr. 
Eustace, the song says true, ‘ There’s no place like home.’ ” 

William Eustace gazed after the animated girl as she hurried 
out of the room Avitli the rose in her hand, and a flush of joy 
brightening her pleasant face : overcome by the confidingness of 
her manner, — by her deep sense of conjugal aftection, — as Avell 
as by the consciousness of his OAvn inferiority of nature. lie 
understood, noAv, hoAV much Eton and Oxford had extracted of 
good out of it, in exchange for the little they had conferred. — 
Virgil and Horace, — or faith in the alfection of a AV'oman of forty- 
five for a husband of sixty-six ! — The odds Avere certainly not in 
favour of the classics. 

But it Avas Avritten in the book of fate that the Sunday dinner so 
sanguinely anticipated Avas not t^ come off. Sir Mark sent word 


88 


rriooREse and prejudice. 


by Manesty, that he was vexed and disappointed, but that “ a 
friend out of the West of England having come unexpectedly to 
stay with liim, he was under the necessity of remaining at 
Meadowes Court, to do the honours to his guest.” 

This excuse passed as current with his Avife and daughter, as 
with most people, it Avould have done if issued by the Bank of 
England, Avhose promises are, in these our times, the only ones 
implicitly confided in. For Sir Mark w'as essentially a man of 
his Avord ; — a man incapable of SAverving a hair’s breadth from the 
truth ; — and on the present occasion, the pretext, for a pretext it 
Avas, Avas none of his devising. Old Xichols, once his foster- 
brother, noAV his butler, suggested Avhat he had often heard sug- 
gested by his master, “ anything rather than alarm my lady and 
Miss Amy ! — ” 

The truth Avas that Sir Mark, pretty nearly for the first time 
in his life, was unAvell and under medical superintendence ; and 
I)r. Burnaby having decided that he must on no account leave 
the house in the present indefinite stage of his complaint, the 
innocent subterfuge Avas concocted between them. 

An equally innocent spirit of coquetry having caused Lady 
MeadoAA'cs and her daughter to aAvait the coming of this much- 
loved, simple-hearted husband and father not only in their “Sun- 
day best,” but prepared Avith all the news of the more than ten 
days they had passed asunder, and all, the honey of love they 
had been hiving for the moment of their meeting, the disap- 
pointment Avas gi*eat. They wished the Ausitor from the West, 
of England back at the Land’s End ; and already began to pre- 
pare for the happiness of the following Sunday. 

The under-keeper aaBo brought the message, meanvA'liile, his 
tongue being unloosed by the excellent quality of the Manor ale, 
had let fall hints of the truth in the servants’ hall ; Avhich Avould 
not have failed of reaching Lady MeadoAves through her maid, 
had she indulged in the vulgar habit of gossiping Avith her atten- 
dant, common among finer ladies. But Amy Avas in such sys- 
tematic waiting upon her mother that this Avas impossible. Both 
retired to rest, that night, satisfied that Sir Mark had been enjoy- 
ing his claret Avith an old friend ; and hoping it AA'as only the 
gravity of the Sabbath evening Avhich had rendered Mr. Eustace 


. PROGRESS AND PRE.TUDICK. 


39 


even more taciturn than his wont. For while Lady Harriet was 
dozing over Porteus’s Sermons (the pet theology of her girlhood) 
her nepheAv’s depression had seemed to amount almost to in- 
disposition. 

Next morning, for a wonder, he joined the family breakfa|j> 
table, and watched Avith quiet admiration the assiduity of Amy 
in concocting and carrying up-stairs her mothers tea. Hot all 
Lady Harriet’s entreaties Avould induce her to delegate the task 
to menial hands. 

“I ahvays wait upon mamma, at home,” said Amy. “Pray ^ 
allow me to carry up her breakfast. She Avould not enjoy it 
unless in her customary way. Invalids have fancies. Excuse 
me, dear Lady Harriet — and let me do as at home.” 

Amy carried her point. But Lady Harriet, who, judging from 
her OAvn feelings, felt that the dutiful daughter Avas gaining too 
great an adA^antage over the heart of her sister’s son, began to 
exclaim against the dangers of morbid sensibility. “ Lady 
Meadowes’s dry toast might just as Avell have been administered 
by her maid.” 

Mr. Eustace thought otherAAdse. And he managed to think 
otherwise than Lady Harriet’s thoughts during the remainder of 
breakfast ; and oppose every word she uttered, till she began to 
consider him exceedingly disrespectful. The simple truth noAV 
occurred to her — that lie Avas ill. If he saw cause to find fault 
that his three little cousins, after breakfasting in their nurser}", 
Avere alloAved to murmur over the Barbauld’s hymns they Avcrc 
committing to memory, in a corner of the breakfast-room, for 
the better chance of embellishing their pages Avith traces of 
Dundee marmalade, her ladyship little surmised that the origin 
of poor William’s captiousness was an aching head, rather than 
an aching heart. 

Amy AA^as kinder. Amy AA^as more considerate. When she 
came back from her mother’s room to hurry through her oaa’u 
tepid breakfast, she felt real pity for the cross young man Avho 
AA'as gazing out of the windoAV, Avith broAvs contracted by suffer- 
ing, at Lady Harriet’s gaudy autumnal parterres of China asters, 
African marigolds, and marvel of Peru. 

“I am sure you are not well this morning, Mr. Eustace,” said 


40 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


she, in the frankest manner. “ Yon don’t look like yourself. Yon 
are quite heated and feverish.” 

“ Thank you. I am not ill that I am aware of. A litthNliead- 
ache, perhaps, after the ponderous Sunday fare of yesterday. 
Boast beef and plum-pudding (especially if eaten together after 
my dear aunt’s heretical House of Hanover imaginations,) are 
dyspepsia and death.” 

“Dyspepsia — as I perceive; I trust not death P' said Amy, 
smiling as she finished her breakfast: Lady Harriet having 
already proceeded, with praiseworthy exactitude, to her daily 
conference with the housekeeper. “But come into the library, 
Mr. Eustace. There we shall find a good fire. You only Avant 
warming to be on a par with the rest of us.” 

The captious young gentleman clearly wanted more. Eor 
even while seated beside a -huge fire piled up with blazing beech- 
roots. and sparkling coal, he began to shiver and look blue. The 
delinquent himself imagined that his qualmish sensations arose 
from being conscience-stricken — and he longed to make a clean 
breast of it, and avow to the girl who evinced such ingenuous 
sympathy in his distemperament, his penitent self-conviction of 
coxcombry and presumption. But how. was this to be done 
without insulting her -with an explanation of his former imper- 
tinent surmises? He sat, therefore, aguish and depressed, but 
apparently stupid and indiflerent; while Amy prepared her 
mother’s work to be ready when Lady Meadowes was able to 
make her usual noontide appearance. 

Grateful, lio'Wever, did he feel for her cheerful conversation. 
He had never before noticed liow great a charm the habit of 
living with a gentle invalid had imparted to her manner. Ho 
bursts of hilarity — no impetuous step or gesture. It was more 
like a tame fawn gliding through the room, than a lively, healthy 
girl with the first bloom of youth still mantling on her cheek. 

At first, indeed, ibwas difficult to withdraw her attention from 
the pattern she was tracing on the canvas, or the worsted she 
was sorting. But at length, he touched upon his visit at Meadowes 
Court; and the sluice-gates of mutual confidence flew open in a 
moment. Tears came into Amy’s eyes as she adverted to her 
disappointment of the preceding day. But they soon evaporated 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


41 


when she began to talk of home. How was her father looking? 
Did he seem fatigued? Was he harassed by his workmen? Was 
he anxious for her return ? 

AYhen tliese queries had been answered, came secondary in- 
quiries. Had he spoken to old Nichols? Were Blanche and 
Sting admitted to the breakfast-room? Did he notice in the 
hall her pair of paroquets? No child could liave been simpler in 
her questioning — no child more eager fpr his replies. 

A colder-hearted man than AYilliam Eustace would have found 
it difficult to resist the earnestness of her sweet face — the mu- 
table expression of her hazel eyes. Still, though inexpressibly 
touched by the naivete of poor Amy’s country-bred manners, and 
the expressive animation of her countenance, he felt too much 
oppressed to answer as he could have wished, the catechism to 
which he was subjected. Much within an hour, partly owing 
to the genial warmth of the fire opposite to which he was seated, 
partly from unaccountable weariness, he dropped asleep. 

The moment Amy perceived the condition of her companion, 
she crept quietly out of the room, and went in search of Lady 
Harriet. Decorum or hypocris}’’, call jt what you will, had no 
influence over the impulses of Amy Meadowes. 

“I am afraid, dear Lady Harriet,” said she, “that Mr. Eustace 
is ill. He has had a sort of shivering fit ; and he is now asleep 
in the drawing-room. Pray go and see him as soon as he wakes 
again. I will stay up-stairs in mamma’s dressing-room, not to 
disturb him. But he has cauglit cold, or is what Miss Honey- 
wood used to call couver-mg an illness.” 

Lady Harriet tapped her on the shoulder, and smiled. She 
would have said — “foolish little girl! why so over-solicitous?” 
but for the fear of hurting Amy’s feelings. But after noticing 
lier susceptibility, she determined that so decided a case of sym- 
pathy between her young friend and her nephew rendered it 
desirable that he should return to his infected home in the North, 
sooner than the bulletin of its bills of mortality seemed to justify. 

She scarcely knew whether to be more amused or vexed by 
Amy’s solicitudes. But before twenty-four hours had elapsed, 
her mind was made up. Mr. Eustace’s increasing indisposition, 
w'hich before night had assumed a character of most alarming 


42 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


lethargy, determined her the following morning to summon Dr. 
Burnaby, her family physician ; who, residing at the neighbour- 
ing town of Oardington, nearly ten miles off, was only called in 
at Radensford Manor in cases of emergency. He came ; and the 
grave face with which he contemplated his now nearly insensi- 
ble patient, sufficed to excite the old lady’s utmost alarm, even 
before his mode of cross-questioning her concerning the nature 
of the epidemic from which her nephew had fled, and the length 
of time which had elapsed since he established himself at the. 
Manor, apprised her of the nature of his attack. 

“A fever, with something of typhoid symptoms?” cried the 
blunt old doctor, repeating the words in which Lady Louisa Eus- 
tace’s letter had explained the matter to her sister : “ Stuft' and 
nonsense ! Why not say typhus fever at once ? Why not put 
peojfle on their guard ?” 

He was almost inclined to rescind the opinion, however, when 
he saw to what a state of agony mere mention of the dreaded 
word had reduced Lady Harriet. Hot on her own account. She 
was conscious of her own ripeness of years. She was prepared 
to suffer — she was prepared to die. But she was not prepared 
to witness the sufferings'or death of the promising children com- 
mitted to her charge by her 'departed soni; whose well-being 
she regarded as a sacred deposit. .It would scarcely have been 
desirable just then for Lady Louisa Eustace to have encountered 
her indignant and terrifled sister. 

“ But my dear, good lady,” cried Doctor Burnaby, alarmed at 
the outpourings of acrimony he had brought forth — “ where’s 
the use of wasting all these hard words on other people? Bet- 
ter turn round, and look about you, and see what’s to be done. 
’Tisn’t altogether civil, Lady Harriet, to make so sure my patient 
wdll die. I flatter myself I’ve brought Avorse cases through, be- 
fore now.” 

“ I was, not thinking of your patient, doctor ; very dear though 
he is to me. I was thinking of my three poor boys. What will 
become of tliern^ doctor?” 

“Why not send them to the Rectory, dear Lady Harriet?” 
said Amy, who was standing, pale as death, listening to the doc- 
tor’s award. 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


43 


“ When I am not certain but that they might carry with them" 
the germ of the fever,’’ she replied, severely. “ Fie, Amy ! So- 
phia Burton is the only child of her mother, and she is a widow.” 

Doctor Burnaby looked better yjleased with his old friend now, 
than while she was reviling her absent sister. 

“ If you’re not afraid of trusting them to me and my house- 
keeper, dear lady,” said he, “ Pll undertake the bantlings, and 
bring them back safe to you when the battle is over.” 

“ Wy dear doctor !” 

“ To be plain wdth you, however,” he continued, “ I never 
saw much good arise from running out of the way of infection. 
I’m not clear that it does not evince an unbecoming mistrust of 
the Providence of God. But of that sin, I’m afraid, by tlie blue- 
ness of your lips and tremor of your hand, your ladyship already 
stands convicted,” added he. “ I’ll be bound you’ve not a thread 
of pulse t£> be felt at this moment.” ^ 

“I will not boast,” replied Lady Harriet, gravely — “I colifess 
to being at my wits’ end.” 

“Then lose no time. Miss Meadowes, my dear,” resumed the 
kind-hearted but gruff old man, “ in getting the children and 
their traps packed up, that I may carry them off without further 
delay. I’ve given my instructions in the sick room. Elsewhere, 
keep vinegar burning, and don’t let more people than are neces- 
sary wait upon the East wing. I shall be here again betimes in 
the morning. The case is urgent.” 

An alarming word, as it recurred to Lady Harriet’s mind when 
her three darlings were off — safe, as she already fancied — and 
she heard the sound of Dr. Burnaby’s departing wheels. She 
had mustered courage to avoid bidding them good-bye. It would 
not have been prudent, after her attendance on the sick-room ; 
and she knew she could trust to the thoughtful Amy to make 
every arrangement for t^eir comfort. But another painful duty 
Avas awaiting her. She must wuute to Lady Louisa Eustace. 

“Hot to-day. To-day, you have nothing to say but what is 
painful,” pleaded Amy. “Wait till Dr. Burnaby has seen his 
patient again. To-morrow may produce a favourable turn.” 

Lady Harriet shook her head. She foresaw too truly that her 
distress and agitation were only beginning. But it was difficult 


44 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


to contest a point witli Amy’s gentle nature ; and Lady Harriet 
was too much depressed to he very contentious. 

“Another favour, if I might ask it,” said the kind-hearted 
gii*!, taking courage from a first success. “Do not, at present, 
alarm poor mamma by announcing the nature of Mr. Eustace’s 
seizure. Her room is at too great a distance from his to expose 
her to any danger of infection f and to-day, she is far too much 
indisposed to leave it. Were she to knoAv the truth, her first 
impulse Avould be to return home immediately, in order to re- 
lieve your household of additional trouble while illness is in the 
liouse : and then ” 

She paused. But Lady Harriet 'was listening so attentively as 
to require the full conclusion of the sentence. 

“ And then, I should lose the satisfaction of assisting and com- 
forting you under your great anxieties,” said Amy, not altoge- 
tlier without confusion of countenance. • 

Again, Lady Harriet shook her head. She was half afraid 
that this generous sympathy might originate in over-solicitude 
for the invalid. Though, a moment before, she had been dis- 
posed to regard her nephew as a condemned man, she wms still 
susceptible to the repugnance entertained against an unequal 
match by the elders of a family submitted to the tyranny of 
“ public opinion.” 


CHAPTER VII. 

Miss Meadowes’s first anxiety on learning, the following morn- 
ing, that Dr. Burnaby^ patient had passed a restless night, was 
to forestall the possibility of a visit from her father. 

“AVemust give up the hope of seefbg you foi" the present, 
dearest papa,” she wrote, in all haste, to Meadowes Court. 
“You must on no account add to our anxieties by approaching 
this infected house. Stop your workmen if you can ; for we 
must return home in order to release poor Lady Harriet from 
additional care and trouble. Her nephew, Mr. Eustace, is in a 
dangerous state from an attack of fever. Dr. Burnaby seems 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


46 


very anxious: and so am I, till I can get my dearest mother 
removed out of dauger. Do not think of coming. But send the 
carriage for us to-morrow morning ; earl}^, if you please. Mamma 
is a little weak and nervous to-day, or I should propose' your 
sending this very evening. God bless you, dear darling papa ! 
more, since we are to meet so soon, from 

“Your own Amy.” 

Alas ! this letter was fated to remain unopened for evermore. 
It never reached the hands of the kindly being to whom it w^as 
addressed. When Miss Meadowes stole from her dressing-room 
in search of a servant through whom it could be forwarded with- 
out alarming her mother or worrying Lady Harriet, the first 
person she met on the stairs was Dr. Burnaby, on his way to 
the remote apartment of his patient. 

“Go back, child!” cried he, motioning her away. “Didn’t 
you hear me say, yesterday, that there was to be no communi- 
cation between the East wing and the rest of the house ?” 

“ Hor have I approached it. But as you have not seen your 
patient, dear Dr. Burnaby, and I hoped that — I thought that — ” 

“ISTo matter Avhat you thought and hoped. Go, child, and 
attend upon your mother. I hear she is ailing ; and I can’t look 
in upon her to-day, Amy, on account of this unlucky fever. Go, 
my dear 3'oung lady, I am waited for yonder.” 

Away he’. hurried to the sick room, where Lady Harriet was 
eagerly expecting him with anything but a satisfactory report of 
the sufferer ; and very long did the half-hour appear to Amy 
which she spent in loitering about the corridor, instead of obey- 
ing his injunction and returning to watch the slumbers of Lady 
Meadowes. She was in hopes of catching from a distance the 
sound of Dr. Burnaby’s voice in some parting injunction to one 
of the servants in attendance on William Eustace. She fancied 
that, even from the tone, though the words reached her not, she 
might be able to infer whether his view of the case were more 
favourable than at his last visit. 

While thus anxiously listening, a whisper indeed caught her 
car. But it was not uttered in tlie direction of the east wing. 
It arose from tlie hall below, where Dr. Burnaby’s servant was 


46 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


waiting, and where the butler appeared to be questioning him 
beside the open door. 

“ He may get through it. At his age, young blood works its 
way through anything,” were the expressions or nearly the 
expressions that reached the ears of Amy. 

“God grant it!” murmured the tremulous voice of Blagrove, 
Lady Harriet’s aged butler. 

“ But I know Master han’t no hope o’ the old gentleman,” 
resumed the other speaker. “ He told Mr. Nichols when he left 
the house an liour agone, that ’twas a question if he’d live 
through the night.” 

“ The old gentleman 1” — Mr. Nichols !” “ Poor Amy was par- 

alysed. Had she heard aright ? While asking herself the ques- 
tion, she had to clutch the oaken balustrade of the staircase, to 
save herself from being precipitated to the bottom. She would 
have screamed aloud a question to the whisperers, that a more 
articulate answer might dispel or confirm her terrible apprehen- 
sions. But her voice died on her lips. She could not call — she 
could not breathe — dumb and motionless, as under the infiuence 
of a night-mare. 

A minute afterwards, however, the two serving men, who 
were still gossiping and grieving together, saw Miss Meadowes 
totter across the hall, breathless and incoherent. 

“/« it trueV'' she faltered, seizing the arm of Dr. Burnaby’s 
incautious servant. “ Answer me this moment ! My father — ” 

The venerable butler, with an admonitory glance at his com- 
panion, endeavoured to withdraw the young lady’s hand, and to 
place her in a chair. 

“We were talking. Miss Amy, of poor Mr. Eustace — ” 

“ You were not. You said the old gentleman was sinking fast. 
Oh! my dear dear father!” cried Amy, wringing her hands. 
“ But I will go to Dr. Burnaby,” — cried she, dreading that she 
might not from his awe-stricken attendant obtain the truth. 
“ He will not deceive me — ” 

“Master will never forgive me!” ejaculated the man, — thus 
confirming the worst fears of Miss Meadowes. “ He ordered me 
not to drop a syllable on’t in the house.” 

Almost before he had concluded his inconsiderate remark, the 


PROaRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


47 


distracted girl had darted through tlie open hall-door; dashed 
along the gravel walk, — flung open the wicket and reached the 
stable yard. And wliile the two servants stood deliberating 
whether they dared intimate to Dr. Burnaby what had occurred, 
before he had terminated his visit to the chamber of sickness 
■which had already assumed in the house the most painful import- 
ance, Amy was assisting the groom to place a saddle on George 
AVarneford’s pony. Unaware of her object or intentions, the man 
dreamed nol^ of disobeying the orders of one of his lady’s guests ; 
and as Miss Meadowes was attired in a morning wrapper, without 
even a shawl or bonnet, it did not occur to him that the pony 
was preparing for her o'wn use, till he saw her jump upon it and 
canter oft'. 

Still, he fancied that she was only returning to the hall-door. 
Nor -was it till old Blagrove hobbled down wdth inquiries and 
reproofs for the assistance he had given, that he could be per- 
suaded the young lady was bent on so mad an exploit as an 
expedition to Meadowes Court, thus accoutred, and unattended. 

“Saddle a horse and follow her instantly, AVill!” said the 
anxious old servant, “ or my lady will never forgive us.” 

But alas! the only available horse in Lady Harriet’s scanty 
stud, had been already despatched to meet the early post with a 
letter intimating to the Eustaces the danger of their son. 

The next resource, and the old man did not hesitate to lay it 
under contribution, was to despatch Dr. Burnaby’s carriage in 
quest of the half-frantic Miss Meadowes. The pony’s paces 
■would scarcely enable her to outstrip pursuit, if the coachman 
exerted himself. It was, however, some time before he w^as made 
to understand the urgency of the case. Unaccustomed to obey 
any orders but those of his somewhat peremptory master, “It 
was as much as his place wuas Avorth,” he argued, “if the doctor, 
wdiose time ■was so precious, should be kept -waiting by his 
absence.” 

When again and again assured that if he made no effort to 
preserve Miss Meado-vves from danger, his place wmuld be in far 
greater jeopardy, his compliance came too late. By the time the 
lumbering chariot reached the high road, the frantic girl had long 
quitted it for the fields. A mile of the distance dividing her 


48 


PROGRESS AND PREJDDICE. 


from the doomed spot where her father was “ sinking fast,” might 
be saved by the bridle-road — even though she had to jump off 
and open gates — even though the way was rough and dangerous. 

She urged the pony on. She became hoarse by urging it on, — 
for whip slie had none. Her hair streamed back from her pale 
face — lier dress was discomposed by gusts of autumnal wind. 
The stumbling of the pony over the stubbly furrows, more 4;han 
once nearly flung her nerveless form from the saddle. But still 
she went on, — unheeding; absorbed in that one overpowering 
uncertainty. Was she too late? Was the old man her father 
yet alive ? 

And now, she fs through the hazel copse. She has crushed 
down the blackened beanhaulm of the last field dividing her from 
the paddock. Her breath is gone. Her cheek is wan and 
clammy as death. For she is within sight of tlio old house, and 
can as yet discern no indication of what awairs her. Tliere is 
not a labourer stirring. The works are as completely stojiped at 
the moat-side as if her morning’s letter had reached its destina- 
tion and accomplished its object. The barrows lie upturned. 
The wheel is broken at the cistern. 

Scarcely dares she lift her eyes towards the windows of her 
father’s room. But a hasty glance shows that they are open, — 
wide open. Is this a sign that all is over, or that air is required 
for the dying man ? \ 

The doors, too, stand wide apart. Hot a servant to be seen. 
Almost before she has leapt from her pony, however, and left it 
to its own devices, Blanche and Sting, who run barking out at its 
approach, change their angry yelp into joyous howls of recogni- 
tion; and keep jumping lovingly upon her, and impeding her 
movements. 

“Down — down!” she rather shrieks than utters, — almost wild 
with the tumult of her agonising fears. As she rushes up-stairs, 
a housemaid who sits on the window-seat of the lobby, — ^lialf- 
dozing through excess of watching in the sick room wliich she 
has recently quitted, — ^starts up to beset her with exclamations. 

^ “ Oh ! Miss Amy — why arc you come ? Master wouldn’t hear 
of you and my lady being sent for. You can’t be of no use, 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


49 


Miss. The doctor says you can’t. Nobody can’t be of no nse 
again the will of Almighty God!” 

Amy paused for a moment, — ^not to listen; but with her hand 
pressed upon her heart, as if to repress its terrible pulsation. 
She looked hard in the woman’s face ; but could not utter a sound 
to frame the question she was dying to ask. Her earnest eyes 
spoke for her. 

“ Yes, Miss, — ^lie is still alive^,” said the woman, following her 
-up the stairs. “But ’twill soon be over. Better not go in. 
Better not see him in his present state. My poor dear master 
won’t know you. He has not even known Mr. Nichols these two 
days past.” 

And when Amy had glided, more like a spirit than a living 
being, through the open door of the chamber, intensely fumigated 
with the same ill-omened aromatics which seemed to bring witli 
them the fatal atmosphere of the Manor House, the first object 
that met her eyes was the poor broken-hearted faithful old 
Nichols; sitting with clasped hands, apparently stupified by tears 
and vigils, — watching beside the bed where a long motionless 
ridge denoted that a human form was extended. Even when 
Amy had thrown herself upon it, in the belief that her father was 
gone for ever, she did not for many minutes perceive that thougli 
unconscious, he still breathed'. Old Nichols raised her gently and 
drew her down upon her knees to the bed-side. 

“ Let him die in peace, my dear young lady,” sobbed the old 
man. “ His moments are numbered. Let him die in peace — ” 

“Father — ^father! — dear darling papa!” cried Amy, — regard- 
less of these remonstrances, and believing that though the eyes 
of the sufferer were dim and glassy, and his limbs motionless and 
cold, he would be roused to consciousness by the well-known 
voice of his clrild, — “listen to me. It is Amy: Amy come to 
nurse you, come to love you. Dear papa, — answer me, look at 
me !” 

But no change of that wan and rigid face denoted that poor 
Sir Mark was conscious of her presence. So little of life remained, 
that it could scarcely be called existence. The solemnity of death 
was upon that honest face. That honest heart had all but ceased 
to beat. The poor dogs whining and cringing at the door which 

3 


50 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


though open they dared not enter^ seemed instinctively to under- 
stand what the distracted daughter would not believe, that the 
kindly hand which had so often caressed them would never ho 
upraised agaip. 

An angry voice and a hurried step were at that moment audible 
on the stairs. But the moment they reached the threshold of the 
sickroom, both were hushed. Dr. Burnaby, who had driven off 
as hard as his horses could carry him, in hopes to intercept the 
visit of poor Amy to the infected house, and on finding himself 
too late, had begun by chiding everybody, and railing even at tho 
2)Oor girl whose danger was the origin of his wrath, no sooner 
glanced at the bed, than he checked his hurried words and foot- 
steps. Gravely approaching it, he closed the eyes of the dead. 

A moment afterwards, he was enabled partly to fulfil his inten- 
tions by raising in his arms and bearing from the room the 
inanimate form of the afflicted daughter, to whom this act had 
announced the fatal truth. On recovering her consciousness, 
Amy found herself in a carriage, supported on the shoulder of the 
good doctor, whose tears were falling on her hand. 

“You are not taking me away from him,” she faltered, — 
struggling to regain her self-command. “ Let me go to my father. 
Let me go to ray dear, dear father.” 

“ No, my child,” replied the physician, in a tone of grave 
authority. “ He is he3"ond reach of your aftectioii and duty. 
Prove how much you have loved him, Amy, by devoting your- 
self at once to the consolation of your surviving parent : — ^j^our 
mother, who has none else to comfort her ; — your mother, Amy, 
entrusted b}' him and the Almighty to your filial care !” 


CHAPTER YIII. 

Tue country gossips in the narrow circle of Radensford pre- 
dicted of course that poor feeble Lady Meadowes would be ex- 
tinguished at once by the sudden calamity which had befallen 
her. Experience confuted their calculations. Persons of infirm 
health are often roused and excited by a shock, fatal to others 
of more robust habits. On learning at on© and the same mo- 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


61 


ment that she had lost the affectionate partner of her life, and 
that the daughter so dear to them was in an alarming condition, 
she stationed herself by the bedside of her dear Amy, pi-epared 
to assuage her sufferings and sustain her courage. Lady Harriet 
herself, with all her severity of self-control, could not have ex- 
hibited greater strength of body and mind than Lady Meadowes. 

“ All, all is well with her, my dear lady. I foresaAV what 
would be her state of mind,” whispered Mr. Henderson in 
a subdued tone to the lady of the Manor House, when summon- 
ed to exhort the afflicted invalid, who stood in no need of better 
counsel than that of her own excellent head and heart. “ She 
has forgotten herself. Her own ailments are as nothing, now 
that others need her assistance.” 

Without ministering spiritually to her sorrow's, how'ever, the 
aid of the good Hector was invaluable in the fulfihnent of other 
duties to which the widow was unequal. The sickness alreaily 
assuming an epidemic character, was so appalling in the neigh- 
bourhood, that an early interment of the dead w'as judged de- 
sirable. The infection must not be suffered to extend. There 
appeared little hope that the afflicted daughter wmuld escape ; 
nor might even the prayers of the terrified Lady Harriet avail 
for the preservation of the beloved boys w’hora Dr. Burnaby had 
taken in charge. But no precautions must be neglected. 

Within four days, therefore, of the sad event w'hich had de- 
prived Meadowes Court of its master, he w'as laid in the family 
vault. Ho need to look into his testamentary instructions to 
determine that question. Where the eight baronets beai ing his 
name, from sire to son, were gathered together in the dust, he 
also was to laid. Thither w^as he follow'ed in all sincerity of 
love by his'nearest neighbours : Admiral Tremenheere, the kind 
physician, and a few magistrates of the districts — emulators of 
his uprightness and right-lieartedne^s. And but that her only 
child lay insensible upon the bed of sickness, his widow would 
have been herself conveyed into the church, to meet on the 
brink of the grave him from whom she had been so rarely part- 
ed, since the day on which they were conjoined together at the 
altar. 

When the will was opened, it appeared that the desire of the 


52 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE* 


testator to be buried with the utmost simplicity in the church 
where he had been so long accustomed to worship, had been 
strictly fulfilled. Nay more, the Rector and the physician, his 
constant friends and associates, were nominated executors. The 
testamentary paper was indited in a few homely phrases. A 
deed executed on his marriage when issue male was anticipated, 
assigned to Lady Meadowes only four hundred per annum to be 
levied on the estate, which he had a right to charge with dowry. 
But he now constituted her his sole heir : “certain,” he added, 
“that she would act toAvards their only child, in every future 
emergency, as he would act himself if liAung to watch over 
her interests.” 

“Right — all right — quite right,” Avas the reciprocal exclama- 
tion of the tAvo executors. “ Lady Meadowes Avill enjoy somc- 
thing more than tAvo thousand a year for life ; and be able to 
make a suitable provision for her daughter, should she determine 
on marriage.” 

Tljough prudent and practical men, they Avere not base enough 
to fancy that the easy circumstances secured to the bereaved 
mother and daughter Avould reconcile them to the severity oi 
their loss. But they rejoiced, and Lady Harriet rejoiced, Avheii 
the moment poor Amy’s comparative convalescence rendered 
removal possible, and Lady MeadoAves insisted on returning to tlio 
house replete Avith associations so painful, that their sorrows 
would not be aggravated by those cares Avdiich, at such moments, 
too often increase the poignancy of family affliction. 

They re-entered the gates of MeadoAves Court overpoAvered 
by their griefs : discerning nothing in those desolate rooms but 
the absence of the eager step and the sjlence of the joyous voice 
Avhich had animated their life and lov'e. But they felt that they 
Avere come to abide for evermore Avhere he had lived and loved : 
— to cherish his memory; to talk of him, to think of him, and 
pre[)are to folloAv him in a happier Avorld. 

In their presence, the question had never been mooted wiiether 
the malignant fever, to Avhich Sir Mark Meadowes had unques- 
tionably fallen a victim, originated in the miasma created by the 
disturbance of the old moat; or Avhether it had been introduced 
into the neighbourhood and communicated to him by young 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


53 


Eustace, at bis ill-timed visit. The Eustace family persisted for 
the rest of their lives in asserting that their son and heir had all 
hut fallen a victim to the infection created by poor Mark Mea- 
dowes’s rash experiment in desiccation. But many were of 
opinion, — Dr. Burnaby openly. Lady Harriet tacitly, — that 
"William Eustace had brought with him the >germs of the fatal 
malady, and communicated them to one predisposed by local in- 
fluences to fructify the evil. For months to come, nay, for ensu- 
ing years, the question was one of the favourite paradoxes of the 
neighhourhood. It was only the good Hector of Radensford 
who from the first discountenanced the discussion. 

“ To what purpose pursue an investigation,” said he “ the r-o- 
lution of which cannot restore the dead, and must unquestionably 
give pain to the living? We have lost our friend. Let us 
respect the decree of Him who has taken him from us. Ho 
human prevision could have forestalled the fatal event.” 

He was especially anxious that the convalescence of Mr. Eus- 
tace might not be retarded, through the remarks occasionally 
extorted from Lady Harriet by the risk to which her darling 
grand-children had been subjected. Though, had it been asserted 
in her presence that Sir Mark Meadowes had taken the fever 
from her nephew, she would have deeply resented it, she could 
not help plainly writing to her sister Louisa that, had the 
children fallen victims to it, she would never have pardoned her 
having billeted William upon her house. 

“Even now,” she Avrote— “ now that he is perfectly re- 
covered and on his Avay to Torquay for change of air, previous 
to rejoining you, to enable me to submit the poor Manor House 
to a complete fumigatioji, preparatory to the return of my 
treasures, I can scarcely persuade myself that all danger is past. 
We have undergone a terrible shock. The loss sustained by my 
kind neighbours at Meadowes Court is alas ! irreparable. Amy 
is broken-hearted ; and her mother will never lift up her head 
again. They would see me, I know, if I visited them. But I 
have not courage, my dear Louisa, to go and witness the terrible 
desolation of a house thus cruelly deprived of the fondest of 
husbands and fathers.” 

She went, however, at last ; prompted less by the desire of 


54 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


soothing their trouble, than by the notion that it became her 
consequence to afford immediate countenance to the widow. 
Lady Harriet as first in rank of the neighbourhood, considered 
herself bound to take the initiative step in its social measures. 
It became her to show an example which might regulate the 
vacillations of public opinion. 

On the present occasion, at least, nothing of the kind was 
needed. High and low, rich and poor, all were anxious to offer 
their tribute of sympathy to the mourners; and all were 
equally edified with Lady Harriet by the composure and resig- 
nation exhibited by the mother and daughter. Amy, indeed, 
could not always repress the outbursts of anguish which her 
mother’s longer experience of the trials of life enabled* her to 
subdue till she could weep unobserved on the congenial bosom 
of her daughter. But on the whole, their reverend counsellor 
found far less occasion than he had anticipated to exhort them 
to submission, and even Dr. Burnaby had almost ceased to scold. 
Their repinings and tears were so exclusively reserved for each 
other, that their nearest friends were deceived. ' 

The executors took upon themselves to suggest a temporary 
removal from Meadowes Court, as likely to be beneficial to the 
health of both ; and favourable to the completion of the im- 
provements, too far advanced not to render it necessary to carry 
them out. But Lady Meadowes entreated to be left in peace. 
Winter was at hand. The early frosts were come. Ho further 
danger was to be apprehended from infection. All she asked 
was to be allowed to remain, at least till spring, without the 
smallest change or disturbance. She felt and Amy felt, that the 
slightest alteration in the place or establishment would dispel 
the charm under which they seemed to live — as if he were still 
present with them — as if he might again return to occupy his 
accustomed seat and resume his place in tlie domestic circle. 

“Leave Mea'dowes Court? Endure the hurry and noise of 
Brighton? Surround ourselves with strangers?” was Amy’s 
indignant exclamation after the departure of Lady Harriet, who, 
at the instigation of the old doctor, had undertaken the task of 
proposing such a measure. “ Oli ! mother, mother ! How little 
they understand us ! Sometimes, in those happy old times which 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


65 


I feel now that I never sufficiently appreciated, I used to fancy 
that I should like to make a feAv acquaintances, in active life. 
But I know better now, mother. I know how little there can 
be in the world to compare with the happiness we have enjoyed 
here — ” 

Lady Meadowes replied by a tender pressure of her hand. 

Fear nothing, my child,” said she, “ There is no chance of 
any desire on my part to quit this place. I have never lived 
in the world, Amy. The position in life from which your father 
raised me afforded no connections to tempt either of us from our 
retirement. His few relatives disclaimed me. My own re?- 
sented their conduct. We became isolated — estranged from 
everything and everybody — ” 

“And all the happier for it — far far the better and happier for 
it — ” interrupted her daughter. 

“That your father was- content with the destiny he had 
created, suffices. And these peculiar circumstances, my dearest 
child, will at least justify the tranquil seclusion to which I look 
forward.” 

“ Even in our affliction, mother,” observed Amy, after a few 
moments’ pause, “my Aunt Davenport has never written — 
never inquired — ” 

Lady Meadowes started. The name of “Aunt Davenport” 
applied to the sister of her husband, from which she had re- 
ceived such slights, seemed to jar upon her ear. 

“Can she, do you think, be ignorant of the event?” persisted 
Amy. 

“ Lest she should be so, our kind friend Mr. Henderson wrote 
to apprise her. A few cold words were returjied by Lord 
Davenport ; a mere formal acknowledgment of his letter.” 

“ My poor dear cordial father did not deserve to have such a 
sister,” was all that Amy could reply. 

'■'•She did not deserve such a brother. But let us talk no more 
of her, Amy. Let us never mention the name of Davenport 
again.” 

“Never — never. We must only love each other the more, 

mother, for being alone in the world.” 

Your cousin, Sir Jervis Meadowes has written — courteously 


50 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


at least — ^more could not be expected from him, in reply to the 
communication of my poor husband’s executors.” 

“ Sir -Jervis !” repeated Amy, musingly. “I am glad be does 
not bear my father’s name. IIow I should have grieved to hear 
it applied to a stranger.” 

“It matters little. 'We shall never meet. Sir Jervis behaved 
through life ungraciously to your father. It is not likely he 
will attempt to renew with ns the acquaintance which respect 
for the head of his family never prompted him to keep 
up.” 

It was on a dreary afternoon, towards the end of December, 
this- conversation took place. Sleet was falling audibly against 
the windows, the blinds of which ivere partially drawn down ; 
and though Lady Meadowes’s sofa was drawn close to the fire, 
she lay cold and shivering. Just the season of the year when 
Christmas cheer, and Christmas charity, had been wont to 
brighten the time-worn old mansion! Just the hour of day 
when they were accustomed to listen for the tread of poor Sir 
Mark across the hall, on his return from his day’s sport ; an- 
nounced by the joyful cry of old Sting, who lay on the mat 
awaiting his arrival. At that hour, they seemed to miss more 
than ever the kindly voice and face so sure to impart cheerful- 
ness to the hearth. 

Old Nichols often crept in at dusk, with a log in his hand, on 
pretext of attending to the fire; but in reality to certify to him- 
self that my lady and Miss Amy w'ere not endangering their 
health by Avhat he called “ taking on.” If he found them en- 
gaged in quiet talk, he would creep out again, without any 
attempt to fulSl his pretended purpose ; thereby betraying that 
he came only because he knew their heaviness of heart must bo 
still harder to bear than his own. 

On the evening in question, while he stood inquiring whether 
“ my lady was pleased to wish that the lamp should be brought 
in,” there came a sharp ring at the jangling hall bell. 

Lady Meadowes, satisfied that she had borne to the fullest ex- 
tent required of her the burthen of visits of condolence from the 
half-dozen near neighbours who had so long constituted them- 
selves her friends, determined to resist the appeal. She had 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. / 57 

signified to each of them tliat they would show their kindness 
best by leaving her fur the present alone with her daughter. 

“I can see no one this evening, Nichols,” said she faintly, 
one : — not even Mr. Henderson.” 

Tlie old man hurried out to convey her prohibition. Already, 
the footman was parleying at the hall-door with a stranger. 
Not a gentleman ; for he was loud, peremptory, and presuming. 

“ It was absolutely necessary that he should have an inter- 
view with Lady Meadowes. lie came on business. He came 
from a distance.” 

The country footman was about to yield to the importunities 
of a man who, though his great-coat was of the roughest, spoke 
in the tone of one having authority, when Nichols arrived in all 
the dignity of his mourning and white hairs, to confirm the 
original negative. 

“Business, or no business, it was quite impossible that her 
ladyship, who was infirm of health, as well as suffering fi-oni 
recent family affliction, could be disturbed at that hour.” 

“I come on the part of Sir Jervis Meadowes,” rejoined the 
intruder, “ I fancy you’ll find it your best interest to admit me 
at once.” 

Nichols Avas startled. Instinctive deference towards the 
reigning representative of a family with which a service of half 
a century had connected him, rendered it difficult to persevere 
in opposition. This man, common-looking as he was, might be 
a messenger of peace and good-will from the head of the house. 
T<) reject the olive-branch, might be an injury to those whom ho 
would have died to serve or defend. Uttering a word of admo- 
nition to Sting, who still maintained his post of guardianship of 
the door-mat, he invited the stranger to step in ; and ushered 
him across the grim, low-browed old hall, into what, in that old- 
fashioned place, was called the eating-room : a spacious chamber, 
wainscoted and ceiled with carved oak ; enlivened only by 
family portraits of baronets and dames of the Meadowes family ; 
most of them curious specimens of exploded art; and about as 
graceful and life-like as the effigies of painted alabaster recum- 
bent on their tombs in Radensford Church. 

Still, such as they were, old Nichols regarded them almost 

3 ^ 


68 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


■\vitli idolatry. And on perceiving that his companion did not 
show their goodly presence the respect of so much as removing 
his hat, he eyed the offender with sucJi marked disgust and 
reproval, that involuntarily he marked his consciousness of in- 
fraction of the laws of good breeding. 

“ I will speak to Miss Meadowes, Sir ; I will apprise my young 
lady that you are here,” said he, while the stranger somewhat 
sulkily removed his hat. “ What name shall I announce to 
her?” 

“Mr. Chubbs Parkis — but my name will tell her nothing. 
Say I represent the heir-at-law of “ the late Sir Marcus 
Meadowes, Baronet.” 

hTow Nichols could no more have pronounced the name of 
“the late Sir Marcus Meadowes” to his master’s daughter, than 
have lifted the roof of Meadowes Court. The utmost he at- 
tempted was to whisper to Amy that she was wanted ; and, 
when she reached the hall, to apprise her that a messenger 
awaited her on the part of Sir Jervis Meadowes. 

Though little used to encounter strangers, poor Amy did not 
for a moment resist. The visit probably involved some trouble 
or ceremony from which she might spare her mother. She ad- 
vanced therefore with a timid step towards Mr. Chubbs Parkis, 
who was warming himself with an air of complacent self-pos- 
session on the hearth-rug, with his back towards the fire. But 
the moment he caught sight of her slender figure, looking slighter 
than ever in her deep mourning attire, and that childlike face, so 
pale and so gentle, his manner became subdued to decency. He 
took his hands from his pockets, and bowed respectfully. 

“You wished to speak to me. Sir?” she said in those silvery 
tones that went to the heart of most people. 

“ On the contrary. Madam ; I wished to speak to Lady 
Meadowes,” replied the intruder, glancing reproachfully at 
Nichols^ who had closed, but still stood beside the door, as if 
officiating as chamberlain for the protection of his young lady. 
“ Your servant, yonder, denied me admittance to her.” 

“ He did right. Mamma is a great invalid : unequal to an in- 
terview with strangers — unequal to the transaction of business.” 

“Business, however, Miss Meadowes, must be done; and I 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


59 


doubt you are less equal to answer the questions I am compelled 
by iny duty to my employer, Sir Jervis Meadowes, to ask, than 
even her ladyship.” 

“ Questions on business I am wholly incapable of answering,” 
replied Miss Meadowes, gathering firmness as her companion re- 
sumed, though civilly, his tone of authority. “ And as I know 
that Sir Jervis Meadowes has already been in communication 
with my father’s executors — both of wliom are in the country — 
I must refer you to thern^ Sir, for any information you wdsh to 
obtain.” 

“Nevertheless,” persisted Mr. Chubbs Parkis, “there are 
points on which a plain answer rendered by members of the 
family, might save a world of trouble and litigation.” 

“ Or might produce them,” said Amy, witli more self-posses- 
sion than was to be expected. “ You must therefore excuse my 
entering into business discussions of any kind.” 

“ This evasion. Madam, looks very far from satisfactory,” re- 
torted Chubbs, knitting his brows and begining to bully. “ I 
expected at least frankness from so young a lady.” 

Old Nichols now thought it time to interpose. “Miss 
Meadowes has signified, Sir, that she wishes the interview to be 
at end,” said he. “ Your gig is at the door. At this hour, you 
w'ill be sure to find the Rector or Dr. Burnaby, my late master’s 
two executor.s, at home.” 

Under sanction of tlie butler’s interference, Amy now effected 
a quiet retreat from the room ; Old Nichols with a firm de- 
meanour keeping back Mr. Chubbs Parkis till she had time 
to regain the drawing-iNjom. “ If neither of them is to be found, 
Sir,” continued the old man,-wdiile his baffled companion angrily 
resumed his hat, with more than one muttered oath, “the family 
solicitors are Preston and Son, of Cardington, with whom you 
may communicate at pleasure.” 

“ Ten miles off, across the forest ; and I have already driven 
sixteen!” rejoined Parkis, angrily buttoning up his wrap-rascal 
as he strode across the hall. “ However — there’s one comfort, 
old gentleman — you’ll have to pay for your impudence. Your 
time is ’most over, and ours is coming. Good night, old boy. 


GO 


PROGREOS AND PREJUDICE. 


Wljcn next we meet, you and your young lady will have bad to 
'lower your flag by a peg or two.” 

Already, almost before the gig was out of sight and hearing, 
the quakings of poor old Nichols appeared to justify the pre- 
diction. AVho was this strange messenger? Why should Sir 
Jervis Meadowes communicate through such a medium with his 
kinsman’s widow and daughter? As to Amy, her self-possession 
liad deserted her the moment she quitted the presence of one 
who addressed her in a tone of insolence to which she was so 
little accustomed ; and when Nichols rejoined her in the corridor 
leading to the drawing-room, she was in tears. 

She had called him softly to her to enjoin that nothing might 
be said to create uneasiness to her mother. Enough to inform 
.liis lady that a person had called on business whom he had re- 
ferred to the lawyers. Nothing could be simpler or more likely; 
nor was the Lady Meadowes of a nature to inquire over-anxiously 
coiiceruing any matter of pecuniary interest. 

Poor Amy exerted herself more than usual that evening, to 
divert her mother’s attention and prevent her recurring to the 
subject. They talked together — each trying to solace the other 
by assumed cheerfulness — of the works to be completed at 
Meadowes Court on the return of spring. They talked together 
on many subjects; — any^ but the one that hung so heavy on 
their hearts I — 


CHAPTER IX. 

“Come and dine with me, to-day, at Richmond, like a good 
fellow, my dear Davenport,” said Hamilton Drewe to his fellow- 
lodger, whom he was surprised and overjoj^ed to And still in 
London, early in the autumn, on his return from a cruise to the 
Channel Islands. 

“ Too late in the year,” replied Marcus, as usual, busy at his 
easel. 

“ On the contrary. This bright September 
than July.” 


sun 13 warmer 


PROGRESS AND, PREJUDICE. 


61 


“ Ay, But it don’t last long enough to enable one, as in July, 
to boat or drive back pleasantly to town, after an overplus of 
Moselle-cup. One should never dine by candlelight at Rich- 
mond and Greenwich ; 'or by daylight, in town.” 

“You are so fastidious! — I want you to meet one or two 
chosen friends — artists — men of letters — who don’t belong to 
the Coventry.” 

“Take them to the Albion, then — or the Blue Posts — or the 
devil,” was Davenport’s churlish reply. 

“But I particularly wish you to make their acquaintance; 
and unluckily, Richmond, which atfords no temptation to you^ 
was one to them when I made the invitation. The sight of a 
green tree is refreshing to poor unfortunate fellows who spend 
twelve months of the year with their noses in an inkstand, in 
this confounded smoky town.” 

“ That is your mistake. London, in September and October, 
when all the blockheads of the earth have guns on their 
shoulders, or spy-glasses in their hands, is neither smoky nor 
confounded. On the wiiole, I think there is less noise here, just 
now, than on the moors.” 

Poor Drewe, perceiving that his friend was in one of his con- 
trary moods, thought it better to let him exhaust his bitter vein, 
as the shortest mode of obtaining final acquiescence. 

“ You asked me yesterday,” resumed Marcus, “ what tempted 
me to remain in London at tliis empty season ; and as you do not 
often listen to answers, I replied by a slirug, which I left you to 
interpret. But if you really care to know the reason why I pre- 
fer Babylon deserted, to Babylon swarming, it is because, in the 
autumn, one is safer from idle intrusion. People who remain in 
town when Grosvenor Square and the Opera are closed for the 
season, are mostly persons having a purpose and occupation in 
life. The atmosphere, too, is now nearly as clear as in the 
fens or the Highlands. I have seen a hand’s breadth of blue sky 
several times lately. Cocotte’s complexion is, as you may per- 
ceive, some degrees less like a chimney-sweeper’s than when you 
last saw her smoothing her ruffled plumes.” 

“Still, I don’t see why, because you find London more 
countrified than the country, you should be less sociable than in 


62 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


the dog-dajs,” pleaded DreTre, not unreasonably. “ You can 
have no engagement, for there is not a soul in town.” 

“ I never am engaged to those whom you call souls. The 
chum whom I am sworn never to throw over is one Maicas 
Davenport, who loves to vagabondise in his own time and place. 
I don’t care to leave my palette, as long as there is a clear sky. 
When the last gleam of sunshine departs, I follow it, staff in 
hand ; dine at the Travellers on the joint and a pint of pale-ale ; 
and then, at half-price, to the play.” 

The looks of Hamilton Drewe w’ould have betrayed some dis- 
gust at these plebeian arrangements, had he not stood in aw'e of 
the raillery of his outspoken friend. 

.“Well, take your staff as usual; and instead of dining at the 
Travellers join us, where you will. My friends must give up 
Eichmond, since you have taken tlie Star and Garter en (jr^jy'pe. 
— You shall have your pale-ale and mutton elsewhere.” 

“ In order that you and your friends may wish me at some 
unpleasant remote locality, all dinner-time? — Mo, no! — Why 
can’t you let me alone ? — I am really not worth your trrouble, or 
worthy your hospitality.” 

“ That point, allow me to determine. I consider you cheap 
at the money,” said Drewe, laughing. “ I have a foreign friend, _ 
whom I picked up touring in the Channel Islands, a sunny- 
hearted fellow, wdmm I am sure you will not dislike ; and a 
literary man — not first chop, I admit ; — a man without a name — 
a sturdy labourer in the viiie3mrd — who embraces the calling as 
it is rarely embraced in England, and always in France — as a 
profession — as a trade if you will ; a practical man, who rears 
his offspring upon printer’s ink.” 

“Pho, pho, my dear Drewe. Such men there be — ‘more 
power to their elbow,’ as say our Dublin brothers-in-law. But 
8uch men dine not at Richmond with dilettante dandies.” 

“Pretty nearly what Hargood himself said to me, wdien I in- 
vited him. However I promised him green grass (just as I 
should have guaranteed an alderman green fat), and secured, 
my man.” 

“I hope you did not tell this person I was coming?” 

“I never 'mentioned your name. If I had, he would have 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


63 


been little the wiser. For he knows no more of the great 
world than I of the Thugs ; and among literary people the 'pa- 
raphe of Marcus D., you know goes for nothing.” 

Albeit Davenport was perfectly aware of the fact, the remark 
-piqued him. Of the many worlds of which English society is 
composed, the literary one was perhaps the one that interested 
liim most. Probably as terra incognita to him ; the same reason 
-which rendered his own aristocratic sphere a matter of curiosity 
to Grub Street. 

Though he still persisted in insulting Hamilton Drewe, by as- 
suring him that his foreign protege was probably some chevalier 
dHndustrie^ getting up a tour with views of English society 
studied in a boarding house at “ Volvich,” and his professional 
man of letters a hack, who -would testify his value of the auto- 
gragh of Drewe, by getting it inscribed on the back of a bill, 
he agreed to join them at Kichmond; and, in fact, arrived at 
the Hotel some hours before them, in order to enjoy a row up 
the river to Hampton Court, and a glimpse of the pictures ; by 
-^vay of atonement to himself for dining Avith so slight a thing as 
Hamilton Drewe. 

The consequence of this expedition was that, by the time he 
returned to Richmond, “ Mr. Drewe’s party ” Avas already at 
table ; having made considerable progress in the early dinner for 
which they had conditioned, and reached a second course consist- 
ing of the inevitable unctuous duck and green peas, and limp jelly 
tasting of bergamot; strengthened by the local dainty called 
Maids of Honour which, in the days of King William of glorious 
and immortal memory constituted a friandise of our Anglo- 
Batavian or Boeotian Court. 

When ushered into the little parlour nearest the river, which, 
60 much resembles a canary’s breeding-box lined with moss and 
wool, Marcus Davenport, albeit unused to the apologetic mood, 
thought it necessary to mutter a few words of excuserfor his un- 
ceremonious costume— which was that of a gallant young 
waterman fresh from the oar, and scarcely fit to encounter the 
scrutiny of Monsieur le Vicomte de Grugemonde, who was in 
full dinner dress — undergoing the slow torture of a stiff Avhite 
choker, and a new pair of varnished boots. 


C4 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


It was not however to with his little serai-bearded kid’s 
face, and jeune premier costume, tliat Davenport addressed his 
apologies. There Avas a plain, stern, hard-featured man seated 
at the right hand of Hamilton DreAve, whose deliberate scrutiny, 
on his free-and-easy entrance into the room, somewhat abashed 
him. To each, however, he directed one of those awkward nods 
Avhich a shy Englishman calls a boAv ; in return for an equally 
awkward muttering of names on the part of their host, such as a 
shy Englishman calls an introduction. 

In order to fill up the pause which is apt to follow the en- 
trance of a stranger, Hamilton Drewe endeavoured to resume 
the mauvaises plakanteries by which he had been previously 
endeavouring to draw out his guest, the Vicbmte. 

Gentle dullness ever loves a joke; and some people find it 
difficult to manufacture one, unless by social pei’secution : to 
chaff a friend — or embarrass a butt — being one of the exquisite 
tilting-matches of modern chivalry. 

“And so, my dear Grugemonde,” said he, “you Avere Avith 
Mery in those fashionable promenades in London, in Avhich he 
describes himself as drinking ‘ hafnaf a Ship-Taverne,’ — and 
talks of the hotel yonder as ‘ITIotel de I'Eglise et de la Jar- 
retiere,’ translating it, for his less erudite countrymen: as '■Star'd 
and Garter?’ ” 

“ I Avas Avith him in seA^eral very pleasant excursions,” replied 
the Viscount in excellent English. “ 1 do not knoAV hoAV he 
describes them in print. Le nom ne fait rien d la chose : or, as 
your great poet phrased it — ‘ What’s in a name V ” 

Charmed by the good-humoured manner in Avhich the young 
foreigner parried an ill-bred attack, Davenport immediately 
challenged him — Anglo-vSaxon-Avise — to a glass of champagne. 
The stern Hargood, Avithout relaxing a tittle of his scoavI, tes- 
tified his satisfaction in a sparkling bumper, and in the course of 
the dinner and after chat, the ice melted so speedily between 
Davenport and Hargood that when the moment arrived for re- 
turning to toAvn, it Avas agreed that they should charter the 
same Hansom. Congeniality of feeling and opinion soon ripened 
into acquaintance ; and as much pleasant talk ensued as, before 
they reached Hyde Park Corner, ‘might have been condensed 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


65 


into a striking article for the oldest number of Blackwood or 
newest Fraser. Ere they parted, their addresses had been mu- 
tually exchanged. Neither thought it necessary to apologise for 
not inviting the other to a palace : — for both were men of plain 
sense and simple dealing. 

Edward Hargood, however, had by twenty years the ad- 
vantage or disadvantage of his new friend. Ilis nature was 
more crabbed, his clay was harder set ; nor was his severe phi- 
losophy mitigated by that innate love of the beautiful, which 
Hamilton Drewe called aesthetic, and his brother-officers had 
been w'ont to call bosh. 

Even Davenport was struck, at his first visit, by the bareness 
and squareness of the domicile of his new acquaintance : a first- 
floor over an upholsterer’s in one of those streets of Soho now 
occupied by pianofnrte or soda-water manufacturers, or other ' 
seekers after space : attesting by their liberality of proportion 
the correctness of Macaulay’s statement, that this quarter of the 
town was long the favourite resort of wealth and fashion. A 
roomy staircase, of which the inlaid floor proved its date to be 
prior to the invention of stair-carpets, ascended by low, w’ell- 
graduated steps to a lobby wide enough to contain one of the 
mouse-trap mansions of the purlieus of Hyde Park ; from which 
opened the spacious, comfortless apartments of the drudge of 
letters. 

The meagre spider-legged furniture was probably coeval with 
the house; a ponderous writing-table covered wdth discoloured 
black leather, being the only modern appurtenance. But al- 
though this and every other spot in the room where books or 
papers could be laid was loaded with unbound volumes, in 
boards or cloth, the strictest order and cleanliness prevailed. 
Nothing of the dust and confusion of a lawyer’s office. 

Hamilton Drewe had incidentally informed Davenport that 
Hargood was a widower. 

“ He must have daughters, though ; or probably, a maiden 
sister,” was the reflection of Marcus. “ None but a woman ever 
tyrannises sufficiently in a household, to produce such neatness 
as this.” 

There was something dispiriting, however, in so much pre- 


GG 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


ciseness. Though scarcely five minutes elapsed before Ilargood, 
in a grey camlet wrapper, made his appearance from an inner 
room, Davenport had found leisure to fancy himself in a Mo- 
ravian settlement. 

I am glad you have not forgotten your promise,” said his 
host ; “ and still more so that you have so timed your visit as to 
enable me to receive you. Saturday is my holiday; and this 
morning, my week’s work Avas done and sent off. To-morrow, 
I devote to reading ; — often the heavier Avork of the tAvo.” 

Davenport was about to remark on the pleasant facility of 
“ skip ” — of turning over a dull page, or laying a heavA^ volume 
on the shelf. But by a peculiar glance directed by Ilargood 
toAvards a pile of works, evidently fresh from the press and guilt- 
less of the intervention of a circulating or “ select ” library, he 
inferred, and justly, that the reading of Ilargood Avas profes- 
sional ; the reading of the critic, not of the book-AVorm, or book- 
butterfiy. 

“We had a pleasant dinner the other night at Pdchmond,” 
remarked Hargood ; “ pleasanter than I ever expected to enjoy 
in the company of young DreAve: — an amiable, well-intentioned 
young fellow, Avho has grievously mistaken his Avocation.” 

“I’m afraid so — ^I’m sadly afraid so.” 

“These are not times',” resumed Ilargood, “for AA'hat used to 
be called ‘ a young gentleman Avith a pretty taste for poetry,’ 
to be written up into notice by partial critics. Good poetry — 
strong prose — will ahvays find readers: but education for the 
million has placed the parts of speech at too Ioav a preminm, for 
a moderate use of them, if addressed to the public, to be regarded 
otherAvise than'an impertinence. I have knoAvm the elder DrcAve 
these dozen years past, as an old donkey browsing on the Avastes 
of Science. Through him I became acquainted Avith his ward : 
to Avhom I Avish humbler ambitions than inflate his empty head: 
for his heart is in the right place.” 

“ I have no great fault to find with my elegiac friend,” replied 
Davenport, Avho, Avhen boAV-woAved, was apt to bark again. “ He 
is a good-natured, easy, unmeaning felloAv, — not near so great an 
imposter as the learned Pundit his relation. But even old 
Wrougliton has his use in the Avorld. His fussy ofliciousness is 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


6Y 


invaluable in vivifying those thousand moribund societies and 
institutions ending in ‘logical,’ which, like a boa-constrictor, seem 
to subsist on a montlily meal ; and afterwards lie torpid.” 

“ Yes,- — I believe the old gentleman has his use,” replied Ilar- 
good. “But I own I look on such -people as interlopers. It is 
perhaps because, a compulsory labourer in the vine-yard, and 
following literature as a calling, I feel a little jealous of the idlers 
who come plucking off the half-ripe grapes, and spoiling my 
market. My gorge rises against amateurs : — amateur actors, 
always more stagey than the stage ; — amateur dramatists, who 
steal the stolen goods of our translators ; — amateur painters, 
who — ” 

“Come, come, come!” interrupted Davenport. “If Drew© 
have failed to apprise you of my usurped vocation, know me as 
one of the race you are about to denounce. I am an amateur 
artist.” 

“ I ought to have guessed it, from your preferring tlie other 
day, Vandyck and Lely to turtle and lobster cutlets! — But again 
I find my vineyard trenched upon. I have a daughter who is an - 
artist — a professional -artist. Stay,” said he, rising and opening 
the door through which he had made his entrance, “you shall 
give me your opinion of her talents. Mary ! — I am bringing a 
gentleman into your studio, he continued, ushering Mark Daven- 
port into a chamber still more spacious than the sitting-i-oom ; in 
which the concentrated light fell full upon an easel at which a 
young girl was working. She scarcely raised her eyes, and not 
at all her voice, as they entered. Her dress, an artist’s grey 
blouse of the simplest form and meanest material, imparted little 
charm to her somewhat insignificant figure ; and when, struck by 
the masterly execution of her work, Davenport found it impossi- 
ble to repress an exclamation .of surprise and admiration, she 
slowly turned upon him a pair of wondering dark eyes ; as if the 
voice of praise was to her an unknown tongue. 

Nothing could be more subdued than her air. Her cheek was 
colourless. Her lips smileless. Mary Hargood was evidently a 
household victim. Davenport had been impressed at the Kich-' 
mond dinner by the contemptuous and arbitrary tone in which 
Hargood spoke of the weaker sex. The fruits were before him. 


68 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


This calm sad-looking little girl of eighteen, in her grey gown, 
who was painting as men rarely and women never paint at eight- 
and-tliirty, evidently knew not the meaning of a will of her 
own. 

The work on wdiich Mary Hargood was occupied, was a copy 
of Murillo’s “Assumption of the Virgin,” which the painter him- 
self recopied so often, thougli not half often enough for the re- 
quirements of posterity: and while Marcus looked over her 
shoulder with unceasing wonder and delight, he could hardly 
sufficiently admire the vigor of her touch, — the correctness of her 
eye. 

“ Your copy. Miss Hargood,” said he, “ nearly equals the origi- 
nal!” 

“ Have you ever seen the original, that you can utter so gross 
a ijiece of flattery ?” she quietly replied, without lifting her eyes 
from the canvas. 

“ I have seen the picture at the Louvre, and the smaller one at 
Lansdowme House. But I allude to the one \ ou are copying.” 

“ Hot very difficult for her to equal, for it is her own,” inter- 
posed her father, abruptly. “ It is the first copy after Murillo 
she executed ; at the British Institution, where it w'on the second 
prize. Me sold it for fifteen guineas, — a handsome price. 'J.dio 
dealer who purchased it soon obtained an order for a second copy. 
But Mary has no longer the original to work from ; and feels that 
it will be inferior to the first. For this therefore she intends only 
to ask twelve guineas.” 

“It is worth ten times, twenty times the money!” replied 
Davenport with enthusiasm. But it grated a little upon his ear 
to hear the buying and selling of the young artist’s works so 
crudely alluded to in her presence. She did not join, indeed, in 
the conversation; but w^ent calmly painting on, as if accustomed 
to be treated as a nonentity. 

“Have you anything else to show this gentleman?” inquired 
her father in a tone of severe authority, which Davenport feared 
would produce a peevish negative. Instead of wTiich, she quietly 
laid aside her palette, and fetched a portfolio. 

“ Hothiug but sketches,” said she, placing the book on a chair 
for her visitor’s inspection, and instantly resuming her work. 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


69 


We •will take it "with us into the other room to glance over 
the drawings,” said her father to Marcus, placing it under his arm, 
and carrying it and his reluctant guest oft' together. “ We should 
interrupt her by staying here ; and Mary cannot aftbrd to be idle. 
I was reading to her when you came in. But that is no interrup- 
tion. She is used to it. Mary has received most of her lessons 
from me while occupied at her easel.” 

“A heavy pull upon the faculties,” observed Davenport, as 
Ilargood drew after him the heavy black door of the studio. 
“ Are you not afraid, my dear Sir, of overtaxing her fine 
_ genius ?” 

“Fine what?'' cried Hargood almost with indignation. “You 
don’t call it a proof of genius, I hope, to make a tolerable copy 
of one of Murillo’s pictures?” 

“ I call this a proof of genius,” replied his visitor, holding at 
arm’s length an exquisite landscape in water-colours, which 
Hargood had taken from the portfolio and placed in his hand. 
“ The composition is exquisite ; the ajrial perspective, by Jove, 
as fine as Turner’s !” 

“ If it were, it would be worth hundreds of pounds,” was the 
cold calculating rejoinder. “And for the best of Mary’s draw- 
ings, I have never been able to get more than a couple of 
guineas.” 

Again Davenport felt disgusted. Still more so when, by a 
closer survey of the portfolio, he saw ho was dealing with an 
artist as imaginative in design as superior in the mere mechanism 
of lier art. * 

“ How hard she must have worked to have attained at so 
early an age, such perfection!” murmured he, musing aloud. 

“ Hard indeed ! — But Mary has had great advantages. Turner, 
Constable, Etty, all of them ray friends, overlooked her early 
progress. She exhibited, indeed, an almost equal talent for 
music. But the career of a public performer. Captain Davenport, 
is far from desirable ; so that pretension I nipped in the bud ; 
and should she bo lucky in the first work she exhibits, my 
daughter will probably realise nearly as much money as an artist. 
Angelica Kaufinann made a rapid fortune.” 

“ I should much like, if you will permit me,” said Davenport, 


70 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


“ to express to Miss Ilargood before I go, the delight 'which these 
exquisite 'works of liors have afforded me.” 

“Better let it alone. The fewer compliments the better!” 
said the matter-of-fact father, tying the ferret strings of the 
shabby portfolio with as much indifference as he would have 
corded a portmanteau. “ Mary is a good girl, and must not be 
spoiled. For the last five years, ever since her mother’s death, 
she has been working as hard as I have, to provide the means of 
giving her young brothers a solid classical education. I do not 
want her to be disturbed by fiattery, or her time wasted by idle 
visitors.” 

Davenport felt that it would be a relief to liis feelings to take 
one of the quarto volumes of Johnson’s Dictionary from the table, 
and discharge it at the head of this dry mercenary father, as the 
great lexicographer did at the head of a shabby bookseller. 

“ My friend Drewe did not apprise me, Mr. Ilargood, that you 
were so fortunate in the talents of your family ” said he gravely, 
having overmastered his impulse. 

“ How should he ? He knows not that I have a child belong- 
ing to me ! Had I informed a rich man like young Drewe that 
my daughter was painting for the benefit of her family, he 
•would have thought it necessary to give her an order ; besides 
perhaps besetting the girl with the compliments you were pre- 
paring just now. Yovi are in a different position. You have 
given me grounds to surmise that you are a poor man; and by 
your own accomplishments, are capable of appreciating her 
merits, without forcing yourself on us as a patron.” * 

“ Nevertheless, if you would permit me,” stammered out Da- 
venport — though little subject to shyness, “and. if Miss Hargood 
were wwHing to re-copy a second time the picture on which she 
is engaged, I should be overjoyed to pay for it double the price 
given by her present employer.” 

“ I will speak to her about it,” replied Hargood, coldly. “ At 
all events I should not permit you to pay more than the market- 
price; unless, on delivery, superior execution warranted an 
advance.” 

“ I confess,” said Davenport, seeking to prolong his -visit, -in 
some hope that the large black door might again revolve on its 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. - Yl 

hinges — “I confess to a weakness in favour of Murillo. 1 prefer 
his Holy Families to those of any other painter.” 

“ To even Raphael’s ?” 

“Even Raphael’s. To me, the Virgins of the Italian artist are 
too spiritual ; and as opposite to the maidens of Galilee ( whom 
1 have studied, Mr. Ilargood face to face), as if the models which 
sat for them had been Finmarkers.” 

“ We are not bound to imagine that Mary of Galilee resembled 
any other daughter of the land. For my part, nothing surprises 
me more than the audacity of the artist who first endeavoured to 
•[mint a Holy Family ; — unless, indeed, it were the inspired St. 
Luke. As a lover of painting, I have a strong general objection 
to Scripture subjects.” 

“ Yet you will hardly deny that the arts have done nearly as 
much as the pulpit, towards the diffusion of Christianity?” 

“ And not a little to its detriment. Nay, I am not sure that 
the enormous spread of Mohammedanism is not .partly attribu 
table to its proscription of all representation of the human face, 
and consequently to the absence of all physical representation of 
the divinity. Your favourite Murillo, for instance, who copied 
hh Marys from the water-carriers of Madrid — ” 

“ The very origin of their truthfulness !” interrupted Davenport. 
“ The human touch, the working of the muscles of the heart 
pourtrayed in their faces, is wdiolly wanting in those fair in- 
effable simperers of Raphael. Nothing interests— nothing 
searches the heart like the Real. This book,” continued Daven- 
port, snatching up a volume of Jane Eyre, which had recently 
appeared and was lying under critical sentence ujx)!! Hargood’s 
reading desk — “this book, by ’which I have been lately en 
thralled, is in my opinion the most remarkable specimen of 
autobiography published since the most shameless but most 
forcible of all works of the kind — Rousseau’s Confessions. And 
— because it is the daguerreotyped picture of a human 
heart, in all its strength and all its weakness.” 

“ I am glad yop like the book ; for I have marked it down for 
especial praise,” replied Hargood. “ For me, it possesses a pe- 
culiar and melancholy interest, as the_History of a Governe.ss ; — 
a class with which my own lifb has been miserably connected. 


72 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


But now, my dear Sir, I must send yon away ; or Hary will 
slacken over her labour, poor girl, if I do not return to cheer her 
up with a chapter or two of the Yestiges of Creation.” 

Davenport took a reluctant leave. He fancied that his con- 
versation might have supplied far pleasanter topics to lighten 
the professional labours of poor Mary Hargood. 


CHAPTER X. 

- “ I’m sure, my dear Doctor, I don’t know how we shall ever 
break it to her,” was the closing remark of good, gruff old Bur- 
naby to Mr. Henderson after a long discussion between them of 
some unpleasant tidings communicated by Messrs. Preston of 
Cardington, relative to the Meadowes estate. “ One can’t leave 
such a task to the lawyers. Their hateful technicalities would 
confuse her mind. One or other of us must tell her the plain 
truth, in the simplest manner. But by Jove! I’ve hardly 
courage to take this disagreeable business on myself.” 

. “ There is no need, my dear Doctor,” replied the Rector 
mildly. “ The undertaking does not alarm me. The scenes of 
grief and anxiety we have witnessed this autumn, liave rather 
hardened my heart towards mere mercenary distresses. As to 
Lady Meadowes, I know no woman on earth more thoroughly 
disinterested.” 

“Disinterested, as it is easy to be, and as all women fancy 
themselves, in despising imaginary millions, and supposititious 
diamond coronets ! After that fashion, you or I might disdain the 
throne of Spain, or the wealth of the Indies. But faith when it 
comes to a question of bread and butter — when it comes to being 
turned out of the house where you have lived happily for the last 
thirty years — ” 

“ But the ejectment is not yet certain,” pleaded Mr. Henderson, 
in a reprehensive tone. 

“ I don’t know what you’d have ! Our friends the Prestons 
strongly advise our not bringing the busines to trial. They have 
taken the best legal opinions. Three leading conveyaneers have 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


73 


decided that the objection to Sir Mark’s disposal of the property, 
is fatal. Those fine and recovery questions, to us a mystery, are 
points clearly laid down by the law of the land : and the only 
wonder is, how' Sir Mark Meadowes and his father before him, 
to both of whom the custom of Kadensford Manor must have 
been perfectly familiar, allowed themselves to neglect it. As to 
Sir Mark, there’s no forgiveness for him — with a daughter — and 
such a daughter — unprovided for.” 

“ There is no forgiveness for his having squandered away the 
six thousand a-year which he originally inherited. As to this 
unfortunate forfeiture of the Meadowes Court estate to the heir- 
at-law, the family attorneys, whoever they were at the time, are 
solely to blame. In matters of business, Sir Mark was a mere 
child.” 

“At fifty-nine, no man has aright to remain a child in matters 
of business. It is culpable, Sir — it is heinous.” 

“In the eyes of my cloth, my dear Doctor,” rejoined the 
Rector, “there are many less pardonable transgressions.” 

“But all this don’t help us towards our explanation with the 
poor dear lady,” cried Dr. Burnaby. “ Would } on have me pave 
the way, pray, by a hint or two to Miss Amy ; or will you at 
once blurt it out to her mother?” 

“ I will explain it, with proper caution to her mother. But I 
am mistaken if I do not find Lady Meadowes rise at once to the 
level of her position.” 

“ Fall at once, you mean.” 

“ Fall, if you will. But such a trial, nobly encountered, is, in 
my opinion, a step upward — a step leading to the skies.” 

“I’m glad you see it in any favourable light. I could be 
content to spare them such an advantage,” said the more worldly- 
minded old doctor. “Four himdred-a-year for the support of 
t wo delicate helpless creatures, accustomed to all the luxuries of 
life—” 

“To all its comforts — not to all its luxuries,” pleaded the 
Rectem “ And reflect how great a blessing it is that they have 
four hundred a-year ! Unless the careless man, whom you admit 
was a child in matters of business, had charged the estate on his 
marriage with his wife's dowry, they would have been absolutely 

4 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


7i 


peDijiless. The stock and furniture at Keadowes Court T\iH not 
Kell for £1,200 ; and that miserable pittance might Lave been 
iheirall?”^ 

“ You are right, iny dear friend, as you usually are, and as most 
people are who look to the sunny side of things,” replied Hr. 
Burnaby. “ May you be able to satisfy this poor widow as readi- 
ly as you have silenced me. And now, with your leave, while 
you make the plunge. I’ll drive oh to the Manor House, and let 
Lady Harriet know how matters stand. She will be of service to 
us in helping to temper the wind to these shorn lambs.” 

The Rector of Radensford who, though he made the best of 
an irretrievable grievance, Avas deeply troubled by the darkened 
prospects of Amy and her mother, experienced s(>me reluctance 
at the idea of their misfortune becoming so soon a matter of 
r.otoriety in the neighborhood. But it could not be helped. Sir 
Jer\is Meadowes showed every intention of bringing matters to 
a speedy crisis. Perhaps it was as well that the ice should be 
broken at once. 

Little however did he surmise, — little did even the kind-heart- 
ed bustling Dr. Burnaby imagine when he drove up to the door of 
the Manor House, how extensive a castle in the air his visit was 
fated to bring doAvn. 

From the period of lier hospitable housing of the ^fcadoAves 
family, three months before, poor Lady Harriet had led an 
unquiet life. "With all lier reliance on -her oAvn intidlibility, she 
had been at times almost puzzled; Avith all her confidence in the 
superiority of principle innate in herself and her family, she had 
been more than once inclined to self-condemnation. 

The heart of her nepheAv, London-man and callous as ho 
appeared, had been Avoundedto the quick by the afflictions of the 
MeadoAves family; aggravated by a conviction that he had been 
the means ot conveying the fatal infection to the good old 
baronet: and he resigned himself by degrees, but Avithout much 
of a struggle, to the passion Avhich had in fact originated his ill- 
fated visit to Meadowes Court. ToAvards Amy, happy, LfTighing, 
prosperous, and a trifle contemptuous, he might have maintained 
his dignified reserve. But the interest she had evinced in his 
indisposition, as avcII as her subsequent sorroAvs, and patience 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


75 


under suflEering, had impelled him to throw off at once his 
ungracious armour of defence. On his sickbed, and scarcely yet 
redeemed from the shadow of death,* he not only admitted to 
liiinself that, if he recovered, Amy Meadowes would be the wife 
of his choice and wife of his heart, but made no secret of it to 
his aunt. Even Lady Harriet, had been sufficiently dismounted 
from her pedestal of pride by so close an encounter with the 
gridy enemy who makes small distinction between ennobled 
clay and plebeian, that she refrained from indulging in the sermons 
and prohibitions by which she had endeavoured to forestal the 
evil. 

“I will do all I can for you, my dear boy,” said she, when her 
nephew’s now perveless hand enfolded her own, while endeavour- 
ing to secure her good offices in his favour. “But I give you 
little hope, William — I have often heard your father and mother 
applaud the firmness of the Davenports in discountenancing their 
brother’s mhalliance ; and I am convinced neither Sir Henry nor 
my sister would ever give their consent to your marriage with 
the daughter of a governess.”* 

“A woman derives her position in life from her father, dear 
aunt, not from her mother.” 

“ She derives her nature and instincts from both. I confess 
that, equally with your parents, I dread and detest the influence 
of ignoble blood. Well ! don’t take away your hand, Willy. You 
liave retained me as your advocate: and, as I said befpre, I will 
do my best.” 

“Ho one does their best, Annt Harriet, where their own 
opinions or prejudices are adverse. But when will you write? 
When will you endeavour to sound my mother about the best 
mode ‘of attacking my father ?” 

“Ho hurry, my dear child. You are as yet scarcely able to sit 
up. Besides, Ain}^ in her present deep affliction, is no object for 
courtship. It would be an offence both to her and her mother 
even to hint at such a thing. Get Avell — get strong, Willy. Let 
us endeavour to recover some degree of calmness after all the 
shocks we have undergone: and rely upon it, I will lose no time 
in opening a way for what I fear you will find a stormy dis- 
cussion.” 


IQ 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


The moment fur such a disclosure Avas, liowever, more favour- 
able tliaii was dreamed of in her ladyship’s philosopliy. The 
Eustaces, mal^ and female, were in a mood unusually humane. 
They were both grateful to Providence, and ashamed of them- 
selves ; thankful that their only son had been spared to them ; 
ashamed that they should have risked the lives of others by 
despatching him from the midst of inhiction, to Radensford 
Manor ; and at the announcement of his danger, have hesitated 
about hurrying to his bedside. AVhen, therefore. Lady Harriet 
eventually announced that he Avas about to return home still en- 
feebled by his terrible malady, and dispirited by having to 
communicate to them a circumstance — an attachment — little 
likely to meet Avith their approbation, they prepared themselves 
to meet the Avorst Avith patience. At all events, they Avould not 
endanger the conA’'alescence of the invalid by premature opposi- 
tion to his Avishes. 

When he made his first appearance at last, wan, Avasted, 
nervous, these good intentions Avere confirmed. There Avere 
tears in his mother’s eyes : and never had Sir Henry been so 
near the verge of an emotion, as Avhen his son re-entered the hall 
of his forefathers, instead of being conveyed, as at one time they 
apprehended, to the family vault. Even Mr. Eustace himself 
Avas sufficiently satisfied of tlieir kindly feelings tOAvards him, to 
postpone till the morrow tidings likely to ruffie their good 
understanding. 

Before the fioAAung lava of parental tenderness had found time 
to harden, a letter from the Manor House accomplished Lady 
Harriet’s promise to her nepheAV, that she Avould do her best as 
his advocate. By apprising the Eustaces that at the death of her 
mother, Amy would come into an unencumbered estate of two- 
and-tAventy hundreds a-year, she removed from their minds. all 
superfluous scruples. Sir Henry thought it necessary, indeed, for 
the sake of consistency, to accompany his pompous “ assent to 
his intended proposals to the daughter of the late Sir Mark 
MeadoAves,” Avfith a declaration that he ought to have done 
better; that for the last three generations, the Eustaces had in- 
termarried Avith the peerage, so that they had not a_ single Ioav 
connection or objectionable relative; Avliereas there Avas no sur- 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


11 


mising to what humiliation they might not hereafter be exposed 
by such a blot on their scutcheon as the origin of the present 
Lady Mcadowes. But he by no means forbad the match. He 
even promised to make suitable settlements; and to talk over 
with his man of business the proper amount of jointure and pin- 
money. 

The heart of the young lover leapt within him at the sound. 
Never in his life had he been so moved, except when, after a 
two hours’ homily, his father agreed to settle his book on liis 
first Derby : and never, even then, had he been half so fervent or 
half so sincere in expressions of gratitude. He longed to rush 
back into Gloucestershire that very day ; and place his heart 
and hand at the feet of the good and precious being whom he 
accused himself of having presumed to slight and depreciate. It 
Avas only because aAvare that the gates of MeadoAves Court Avere 
closed against intrusion by the sacredness of family affliction,' 
that he^ contented himself Avith pouring out his«J)opes and feel- 
ings in a letter more voluminous than judicious, Avhich he 
forthwitli despatched to Lady Harriet, to be placed in the hands 
of poor Amy at the first favourable moment. 

“Of course, my dearest sister,” wrote Lady Louisa, by the 
same post, “ Ave are not a little grieved and disappointed. We 
had expected that a young man, circumstanced like William, 
would form an unexceptionable match. But God’s aauII be 
done! It might have been Avorse. The conduct of Lady 
MeadoAves in married life has been such as in some measure to 
eftace the stigma of her origin ; an^ as Sir Henry has generously 
sacrificed his feelings on this grievous occasion, and consented to 
a step on which his son has unfortunately set his heart, lose no 
time, dearest Harriet, in bringing the disagreeable affair to an 
issue. Till it is settled, William Avill recover neither his strength 
nor* his looks; and I do not wish the cause of his Ioav spirits to 
be discussed in the school-room. The girls must not be alloAved 
to surmise the unpleasant drawback attaching to their future 
sister-in-laAv. They must knoAV nothing about the marriage till 
it is on the eve of solemnization.” ■ 

After perusing this epistle. Lady Harriet gravely shook her 
head. Though she had fulfilled her promise to her nephew,-it 


•78 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


was in the belief that his parents would be inexorable; nor did 
she approve so complete an abnegation of principle on the part 
of the Eustaces. What would the world say? How would 
their inccuishtency be judged by the merciless severity of public 
opinion ? 

Meanwhile, like most weak-minded people entrusted with a 
negotiation, she was in no hurry to bring it to a close. It was 
not often she had so grand a secret in her keeping; and unusually 
stately was her demeanour when Mary Tremenheere dropped in 
at luncheon time, wondering as usual, “ hoAV their poor dear 
friends at Meadowes Court were getting on, or whether they 
Would ever hold up their heads again ;” and folt that her ample 
pocket contained credentials, likely, at no distant time, to raise 
those depressed heads and make their hearts sing for joy. 

For two long days did she revolve in her mind the best mode 
of breaking the happy intelligence to Amy and her mother ; and 
on tlie third, rose earlier than usual to indite a few lines, some- 
what too grandiloquent for tlie occasion, begging “ leave to wait 
upon Lady Meadowes at two o’clock that day, to communicate 
something of the highest importance ; something which she 
trusted would prove as agreeable to her friends at Meadowes 
Court as to herself;” and, having sealed the letter with her 
largest and best emblazoned lozenge, and despatched it- by her 
little foot-page in the form of Bill the weeding-boy, she was re- 
clining back in her chair, meditating on the terms suitable to 
convey her nephew’s proposals to her invalid neighbour, Avithout 
marking too great a condescension on the pnrt of the Eustaces-, 
or too unchristianly a sense of the sacrifice her family was mak- 
ing, when Dr. Burnaby was suddenly announced. She was 
startled. The little boys were in perfect health and safe in the 
school-room Avith their tutor. The establishment, down to the 
minutest scullery-maid, Avas free from catarrh. 

She felt that mischief Avas impending. Though so thoroughly 
Avorthy a man as the good doctor ought never to be invested 
Avith the attributes of the Stormy Petrel, his spontaneous ap- 
pearance Avas an evil omen. ' 

Luckily for Lady Harriet, he had no time to lose in ambiguous 
phrases. Old Burnaby Avas no diplomat ; and so short a timo 


PROGRESS A^'D PREJUDICE, 


79 


did lio expend in making lier acquainted with the fatal fact that 
her ‘well-to-do neighbours were reduced to a humbler level of 
life, that, instead of listening to the sequel with uplifted hands, 
upturned eyes, and the profound syinpatby he had anticipated 
from her well known good-will towards the family, her first im- 
pulse was to start from lier seat, and vehemently ring the bell. 

Vv^hat could she want so suddenly? A glass of water? A 
bottle of Godfrey’s salts ? The good doctor was half-inclined to 
seize her ladyship’s hand and place a finger on her pulse ! But. 
no! She was full of aniination. No symptoms of syncope. No 
fear of a swoon. 

Is the boy gone ? Has my letter been taken to Meadowes 
Court ?” cried she, with a degree of abruptness almost worthy 
of her guest, and altogether foreign to her usual dignified 
reserve. 

“I will inquire, my lady.” 

Unaware of the critical nature of the case, the rheumatic 
butler inquired so leisurely that, before his answer was -rendered, 
and Avhile Dr. Burnaby still sat wondering and tapping bis snuff- 
box, Lady Harriet again addressed herself strenuously to the 
bell. 

“ The lad is gone, my lady. He went instantly on receiving 
your ladyship’s orders.” 

“Then hurry after him, Blagrove. But no! you could not 
overtake him. Let Master Warneford’s pony be saddled. John 
or the gardener must instantly follow him and bring back my 
letter.” 

“Bill will take across the fields, my lady, and — ” 

“No matter, no matter! Some one can go round by the 
road, and meet him when he arrives at Meadowes Court. But 
let no mistake be made, Blagrove. I must have the letter back.” 

The old man retired, with a grave and thoughtful countenance. 
He had not forgotten — none in the household Md — Miss Mea- 
dowes’s frantic expedition from the Manor House to the death- 
bed of her father, which the utmost exertion Had been unable to 
prevent. 

When the door closed on him. Dr. Burnaby, evidently a little 
hulfy at the interruption offered to his narrative, could not forbear 


80 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


observing : — “ The letter your ladyship has so eagerly recalled, 
was doubtless calculated to aggravate the pain this sad discovery 
is about to inflict on our poor friends 

“ If it should reach its destination, it will at all events prove 
grievously mistimed,” ' replied Lady Harriet, evasively. ‘•"But 
do you really believe, Doctor, that Sir Jervis’s pretensions are 
well-grounded? Is there no hope — no hope for poor Amy ?” 

“ Not a shadow ! The Prestons, it seems, had their suspicions 
from the first. But they had some delicacy about mooting 
the question. Unluckily, however, old Preston observed to his 
son in presence of one of his clerks, that he should scruple to 
advise any client of Ms to purchase the Meadowes Court estate ; 
for he was afraid no title could ever be made out. On the 
strength of which, some blackguard in the office made it his 
business to aftbrd a private hint to Sir Jervis Meadowes. Ah ! 
my dear lady ! In matters of business let not thy right haiul 
know what thy left doeth ; or thy words may be carried up even 
to the King’s chamber.” 

Lady Harriet, wffio had often before taken occasion to resent 
the old doctor’s unorthodox application of Scripture texts, looked 
solemn, and remained silent. Perhaps she was listening for the 
return of old Blagrove’s footsteps across the hall. The doctor 
of course imagined that his adjuration had made a suitable im- 
pression on her mind. 

“ And how far may we count upon your ladyship,” said he, 
after allowing some minutes’ pause to her cogitations, “ to assist 
us in disclosing these painful facts to the ladies at Meadowes 
Court ?” 

Lady Harriet looked bewildered, and tried to recover the us© 
of her faculties. But alas ! her heart was still flir away, with 
Bill the weeding-bo}^ 

“ Count upon me she reiterated at last, as if she had not 
heard a word of his preceding explanations. 

“ May we, in short, hope that your ladyship’s aid will not be 
wanting in softening this sad blow to our poor friends?” per- 
sisted Dr. Burnaby, getting almost incensed by her evident 
absence of mind. 

“Surely,” she replied, drawing up with some dignity, “the 


81 


I 

PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 

executors of Sir Mark’s will are the proper persons to apprise 
Larly Meadowes of the results of his culpable negligence ?” 

“ The proper persons — though perhaps not the fittest!” cried 
the doctor, starting up and planting himself on the hearth-rug 
without noticing her air of hauteur. “For, by Jove, though my 
last birthday was my seventy-third, the ways of the world have 
not yet hardened my heart to sufficient firmness for the under- 
taking. However that good Samaritan — that worthy man 
yonder at the Rectory — has consented to bear the brunt; and 
all I can do is to step in with my counsels and services, when 
the worst is known and has to be palliated. Good morning, 
Lady Harriet Warneford — I wish you a very good day.” 

The doctor’s hat was in his hand, when Blagrove luckily ap- 
peared at the door, holding in his the fatal note ; and lo 1 his 
lady, rescued at once from the terrors under which she had been 
labouring, became in a moment complacent, affable, and fluent. 
She was quite ready to assist in comforting the Meadowes family 
in any other capacity than as members of her own. She pro- 
posed making her appearance at Meadowes Court early in the 
afternoon. 

Somehow or otlier, as he gazed in Lady Harriet’s countenance, 
the old doctor’s mind misgave him that the iron gripe of world- 
liness was hardening her heart. He could not shake her hand 
so cordially as usual, when again bidding her good-bye. Before 
he left the room, he saw her hastily commit to the flames the 
epistle she had recovered, as if she could not too speedily secure 
the extinction of so unpleasant a document. But very little did 
he surmise with what eagerness she sat down, immediately on his 
departure, to address her nephew, re-enclosing the long letter of 
explanation intended for Amy — and congratulate him on his 
escape. 

“Another half-hour, and he would have been irretrievably 
committed to a marriage with a pauper!” 


4 ^ 


82 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


CHAPTER XL 

Mark Davenport, like other ■wilful men, was apt, when he 
did surrender himself to a new impulse, to give up without a 
struggle the keys of the fortress. Ilis artistic eye had been sin- 
gularly captivated by the picturesque and characteristic aspect 
of Hargood’s daughter ; and his somewdiat rugged nature was 
touched by her patient servitude. He could not drive her from 
his mind. Through the fragrant clouds of his hookah, her sad 
face seemed gazing upon him from a distance. At length he de- 
termined to exorcise the spirit, as he had done in similar cases, 
by transferring to canvas or paper the image that haunted him ; 
as poets imprison an idea in a sonnet, or musicians in an adagio. 

The gloomy studio with its stream of light falling from the 
lofty window w'as soon sketched in : and the slave of the easel 
was beginning to stand out from the background, in her pale 
grey blouse. But when it came to the stern but mournful face 
of the girl who,- with the proportions of a child, looked as if she 
had never been young, the rapid hand of the artist paused, as 
from momentary compunction. Mary Hargood’s grave counte- 
nance seemed gazing at him reproachfully, as if he were 
unlawfully prying into the dimness of her melancholy life. 

He threw aside his brush ; and resumed the book he had left 
half open by the fireside. It was Ohamisso’s striking poetry of 
Peter Schlemihl. But his eyes -Rmndered listlessly over the 
pages. He could not — could not — recal his wandering attention. 

“By Jove,” cried he, at length, with sudden impetuosity, 
which caused the terrier basking at his feet to start up barking 
as though it heard “a rat behind the arras” — “ by Jove> that 
fellow Avas born to be a nigger-driver or a dentist. He -weiglis 
his own flesh and blood in the balance as though it were so 
much putty ; and looks upon that gifted child as my father on 
one of his Leicester sheep — calculating it at so much a pound. 


rHOGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


63 


Fm not one of tjiose who fancy women formed to live inider a 
glass, like eggshell china, and other fragile curiosities. But hang 
ii — one need not treat them quite like potter’s clay ! — ‘Let us 
take care of the Beautiful,’ said old Goethe. ‘The Useful will 
take care of itself.’ ” 

And back he went to his sketch ; and by a few able touches, 
brought out the physiognomy of the youthful artist. 

Scarcely had he sati>lied liiinself by a certain conscious tingling 
of the cheeks (as if the foi bidding but fascinating girl were 
again before him wi h her rebuking glances), that the likeness 
was one of the best he had ever produced, when the hurrying 
step of Hamilton Drewe upon the stairs startled him from his 
reverie; and his ejaculations concerning the threatened intrusion 
were not much more complimentary than they had been to- 
wards Mary's taskmaster. 

'“Confounded bo’-e, to have that moth perpetually buzzing 
about one’s ears!” muttered Mark. ‘'If he don’t leave town 
shortly, I shall sport my oak as if in chambers, or fairly lock my 
door, as one does on the continent.” 

"While giving utterance to these threats, he shuffled away into 
his dressing-room the block of paper, on which he had been 
working. 

“ What are you shuffling out of sight, my dear Davenport ?” 
inquired the poet, who, being in the habit of turning his own 
empty mind inside out as })eople turn their pockets, did not 
admit that others could have secrets to keep. 

“ Something I do not wish you to see,” was the cool reply. 

“ Bat it is only a drawing?” 

“If you know what it is, icJiy so curious?” 

“ Not curious : only interested in every wmrk of yours.” 

“ But this is not work — it is ^lay.” 

“ Eauon de plus. Do let me see it ?” 

“ Certainly not.^' 

“Not when it is finished, my dear Davenport?” 

• “ It will never be finished. .Like the Cathedral at Cologne— 

the Church of St. Genevieve— the Palace of the Louvre— and 
the story of the Bear and Fiddle, it is fated to be immortal in 
incompleteness. But what has caused you, Drewe, to bo armed 


84 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


ccqj-a-pie so early in the morning? I never saw you dressed 
like a Christian before, till the siin was vertical.” 

“Because,” replied his visitor, taking a letter from the pocket 
of a fur-coat, built as if for an Artie expedition, “ because old 
Wroughton lias just sent me an order for the private view of the 
new gallery of Egyptian antiquities at the British Museum ; 
and I want you to come with me and inspect them.” 

“I have seen them already. I assisted at the packing. 1 
was six months in Egypt on my way overland from India.” 

“ Then I will go in search of Hargood,” said Drewe, re-pocket- 
ing tlie ticket, and preparing to depart. 

“ Oil ! if Ilargood is to be of the party, I am your man,” said 
Davenport. “Wait a moment, and I will be ready.” 

“I wonder why on earth I submit to your impertinent 
caprices !” cried Drewe, shrugging his shoulders. 

“ Simply as people overlook the rough coat of a pine-apple,” 
was the cool rejoinder; “because you know me to be fine fruit 
at the core. By the way,” continued he, a^, some minutes after- 
wards they were driving through the danij^^ dark narrow streets, 
towards the domicile of their literary friend — “ has not liar- 
good a professional artist in his family — wife, sister, daughter, 
niece — I forget wdiat — to whom a sight of these pictures might 
be a blessing?” 

“ I had rather not invite his wife, who has been dead these 
six years. He has probably a maiden sister — for I never saw 
rooms kept in such apple-pie order.” 

“Ask her, then. It would be a charity.” 

“ Charity begins at home; and I might be required to drive 
her in my cab.” 

“Hot at all. Send her wdtli Ilargood. But here wm are,” he 
continued, as his companion suddenly reined up. “ Let me out, 
Drewe, and I will carry your message to our friend ; for I don’t 
care to be left in charge of your frisky bay, while you are making 
a short story a long one.” 

In a moment, the mne bright brass bell-pull, in a line of dirty* 
tarnished ones, had summoned the tidy parlour-maid of the liar- 
goods, by whom Davenport was primly informed that “ Master 
was not at home.” 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


85 


“ I know it. Bnt I have a message to Miss Hargoocl,” said lie, 
brushing vigorously past her up-stairs : and he had opened and 
traversed the chilly drawing-room, and knocked at the door of 
tlie studio, before the scared little woman had found time to close 
the street-door in the face of Hamilton Drewe. 

A low sad voice bad him enter; and enter he did. And there 
stood the pale little artist, with the same palette and brush in her 
hand, and the same sad look in her eyes ; stationed precisely (in 
the same spot, with the same gleam of light falling on her glossy 
hair. It was like the realisation of a dream. Ilalf-aft-hour 
before, Davenport had been labouring to recall all these details, 
and fix them into reality by his pencil. And now, all was before 
him ; his vision verified. 

Ilis explanations w^ere hurriedly made. But Mary Avas not 
slow of comprehension. 

“It is very kindly thought of on your part,” said she, Avhen 
he had made all clear. “ But even had my fatlier been at home, 
I could not have accompanied yon to-day. I have three hours’ 
Avork' before me. When my palette is prepared, I never Avork 
less than six hours.” 

“ But for such an exceptional occasion — ” 

“ Hot exceptional to me. To-morroAV is Saturday — my father’s 
holiday ; and he has promised to take me to the Museum.” 

“ To the 'public vieAv.” 

“Public or priA^ate, the objects vicAved will be tlie same. We 
have a ticket for to-day, Avhich Av^e do not use. It is one of the 
advantages my father derives from his connection Avith the press, 
that such places are ahvays open to us.” 

By this time, Davenport had made his Avay to the side of the 
arti^t, Avho had not so much as laid aside her brush in compliment 
to his presence. With the keenness of a practised eye, he saAv im 
a moment that several slight criticisms he had hazarded on the 
occasion of his former visit, had been carefully attended to. The 
picture had groAvn and ripened during his absence. It Avas indeed 
a masterly production ; and his praises were as fervent as 
sincere. 

“ You should attempt some original production. Miss Hargood,” 


80 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


said lie. “You are wasting the most precious time and talents 
on these copies.” 

“Not so long as I continue to receive commissions for tl ein,” 
she coldly replied. “ Original composition is ahvays a ri'k. Have 
you any further message, Mr. Davenport, to my lather ?” 

This was uttered in so decided a tone of dismissal, that he felt 
it necessary to express his negative in a hasty leave-taking. Just 
in time! — for when he reached the street, the impatient Drewe 
was preparing to come in search Df him. 

“A surly, imraannerlv, piece of goods!” muttered Davenport, 
as lie re-anj listed himself in the cab. 

“ Of whom are you talking ?” 

“ Miss Hargood.” 

“ Oh? there is a sister then?” 

“ A dozen, for what I know or care. Hargood was out. But 
drive on for the love of Heaven; — for we have wasted so much 
time by coming out of our way, that half the fools in London 
will have the start of us.” 

With very little ceremony would he have abandoned his com- 
panion altogethei-, now that all hope of the Hargoods’ company 
was at an end ; but that he felt a sort of hankering to see what 
Mary was to see on the morrow. 

And apparently he felt so much more interested in the colossal 
faces of Memphis transplanted from the African wilds into those 
of Bloomsbury, than when he last beheld their impassible faces 
in the land of the Sun, as to fancy that he could not visit them 
too often. For, in spite of many wise resolves to the contrary, 
on the moi-row' he returned ; exhibiting of coui-se as much surprise 
wdien he found himself face to face with Hargood and his daughter, 
as if he had gone thither for any other purpose than that of 
meeting them. 

On their part, surprise w’as neither felt nor assumed. Both 
were engrossed by the novel and interesting spectacle before 
them ; nor was it till Hargood perceived that Davenport had in- 
formation to impart concerning Egypt, its ancient mysteries and 
modern government, that he took much heed of his presence. 
That any friend of Hamilton Drewe should turn out an acute 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


87 


observer, and be able to relate with precision and without affecta- 
tion what he had accurately examined, was an unexpected satis- 
faction. Warmed by the attention bestowed upon him, jMark 
Davenport described with graphic eloquence the wonders of 
Thebes and the desolation of Tadmor. 

“ I have some sketches made on the spot, which I should very 
much like to show to Miss Ilargood,” he continued, while tlio 
critic, with his brows knitted and his arms folded, stood contem- 
plating the cqlossal faces which have been staring the Avorld out 
of countenance for so many ages. “ I would offer to send them 
to your house for her inspection ; but that I. fear many of my 
sketches stand as much in need of verbal explanation as the Red 
Lion of immortal memory.*’ 

“ Have you got them with you in town ? — Why not let us see 
them at your lodgings?” demanded Hargood, witli tlie utmost 
simplicity. For the shallow etiquettes of life were thorougidy 
out of his sphere ; and having already visited Captain Davenport’s 
perfectly decorous apartments, he saw no reason why he might 
not take his daughter there, for a purpose ail but professional. 
It was their -weekly holiday. The only obstacle he suggested 
was that Mary might be tired by so long a walk. 

Startled by such ready compliance almost into regretting that 
he had made the proposal, Mark Davenport began to reconsider 
v/hether his sketch-book might not be found lying on the table, 
displaying the interior of Mary’s studio, and betraying the in- 
terior of his heart. He would perhaps have felt inclined, like 
Boccacio’s hero, who sacrificed his falcon to feast a beloved guest, 
to wring the neck of the pink cockatoo in her honour, but for the 
extraordinary composure wdth which the apathetic young lady 
acceded to lier father’s proposal. She entered his batchelor’s 
sanctum as unconcernedly as she Avould have crossed the thres- 
hold of a railway station ! 

Scarcely however could he refrain from telling her, as she • 
warmed her hands at his fire, how much she had been thought 
of and dreamed of within those walls. But he restrained him- 
self. He was beginning to understand the nature of Hargood 
sufficiently to know that he must fancy himself the first object 
of the visit, or that it would never be repeated. For his daughter 


88 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


to be raised into more than a mere supplement to liimself -would 
have poured Ins humour for the day. 

As it was, he laid the flattering unction to his soul, that to en- 
joy the ])leasure and benefit of his conversation, a rough young 
soldier like Davenport extended his hospitality even to his poor 
yea-nay child. 

They turned leisurely over the Egyptian portfolio; Mr. Ilar- 
good entering largely into historic doubts and antiquarian disqui- 
sitions.- But though fully appreciating the vigour and grace of 
the sketches, not a syllable of praise escaped the lips of Mary. 
She had been brought up to regard the language of compliment 
as contemptible — a noxious aliment acceptable only to children 
and fools. But Davenport was content. She had taken off her 
shabby straw-bonnet so as to display her well-turned head and 
the prettiest little ear in the world ; and thrown wide her heavy 
woollen shawl — not to exhibit her well-fitting black-silk dress, 
but the better to approach and admire the drawings extended 
on the table before her. Already, fehe seemed perfectly at home, 
and never before had so intelligent a face brightened the atmos- 
phere of that solitary lodging. 

By Davenport’s orders, a cup of hot tea was brought, which 
the coldness of the day rendered acceptable : and by the time 
^fary Hargood was thoroughly cheered and carried out of her- 
self by the novel chefs-cVcRuvre placed before her, she could no 
longer disguise her consciousness of the hien etre she ex- 
perienced. 

“How happy you must be here!” said she, abruptly addressing 
Davenport, afrer a glance round the room, which comprehended 
even the bird and the terrier. 

“ Is any one happy any where ?” he replied, by way of con- 
cealing his delight at this unconscious betrayal of her satis- 
faction. 

“ Here is a face that portends perfect contentment,” observed 
Hargood, laying his hand on a portrait of Hugh Davenport — one 
of the earliest attempts in water-colours of his brother. 

“ Perfect contentment and perfect excellence !” replied Marcus ; 
“the best of all human beings — my brother Hugh.” 

“Ay, by the way. What has become of that paragon of 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


89 


brothers ?” inquired Ilargood. “ Am I never to see him but in 
effigy ? The day we dined at Richmond, you mentioned that 
you Avere expecting him in town.” 

I am expecting him still. But he is at his old lunes ; re- 
nouncing his own pleasures to comfort the sorrowful and heal 
the sick. My mother has lately lost her only brother; and 
though they had not been on speaking terms for the last thirty 
years, remorse of conscience has replaced on this occasion the 
instincts of natural affection. She probably reproaches herself 
for having allowed him to slip out of the Avorld unreconciled ; 
for I find she is terribly cut up.” 

“ The sisterly attachment which could hold itself suspended 
for the third of a century, can scarcely, however, be of a very 
potent quality,” rejoined Hargood. “ I have not much faith in 
posthumous atonements. But since you have so recently lost an 
uncle. Captain Davenport, hoAV comes it you are not in 
mourning ?” 

You may well rebuke me. Alas ! I am apt to deport myself far 
from respectfully towards conventional forms. I never saw this 
old man. His very name was tabooed among us: and I should 
almost as soon have thought of ordering for myself a black coat 
for the King of Ashantee. I am Avrong, however. For his 
memory is entitled to some reverence. There lived not a truer- 
hearted British sportsman, or kinder-hearted British gentleman 
than poor Sir Mark MeadoAves.” 

Sir Mark whom did you say ?” inquired Hargood, as though 
he misdoubted his senses. 

“MeadoAves, of MeadoAves Court: as I suppose the Baronetage 
or the-Landed Gentry books Avould style him,” replied Daven- 
I)ort, gazing on the graceful contour of his fair guest. 

“And Avho, may I ask, Avas his wife?” said Hargood, in a 
tremulous voice. 

“ That faith, I can hardly tell you. Something Ioav and dis- 
graceful, Fm afraid, from the manner in which he was sent to 
Coventry by the elders of the family; some Avaiting-maid,— or 
Avorse — ” 

“ You lie^ cried Hargood, in a tone that thrilled to the 


90 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


very marrow of his daughter, and caused Davenport to start 
forward as though a weapon had been thrust into Ids side. 

“Father, — father — ’’ interposed the terrified Mary, too well 
aware of the violence of his nature ; and clinging to his arm as 
though she foresaw that to words so harsh, blows would probably 
follow. 

“ I say again, he liesP’’ cried Hargood, with quivering lips and 
panting emotion. “ She was good and virtuous as his own 
mother ; a gentlewoman, though humbled by misfortune — a 
governess, but a clergyman’s daughter — rny father's daughter. 
Sir — my sister — my only sister!” 

“Hargood — you are forgiven — and it is now my turn to crave 
your pardon,” said Captain Davenport, — the fire which for an 
instant had flashed from his eyes being lost in a look of the 
deepest concern. “My offence was one of complete but pardon- 
able ignoi-ance. All I ever heard of my uncle’s wife was learned, 
in forbidden moments, from the gossiping of servants.” 

“A worthy source for such infamous detraction!” cried Har- 
good, still unappeased. 

“ You cannot imagine tJiat I would have wilfully insulted you,” 
earnestly persisted Captain Davenport. “ You do not surely 
suppose that I was in the slighest degree aware of the connection 
between us?” 

“ As little as myself. You 'would else shunned the society of 
the literary hack, as loathing as / should have avoided communi- 
cation with any member of a family by whom my poor sister had 
been so disgracefully trampled on. Your name is not a rare one ; 
I did not connect it with 'the race of lier persecutors. Oims is 
too plebeian even to have attracted your notice. Mary, child ! 
your bonnet and: shawl — !” he continued, suddenly addressing 
his daughter ; down whose blanched cheeks tears were beginning 
to flow. 

“ At least do not leave the house in so bitter a spirit,” pleaded 
Davenp*ort. “ I offer you every apology in my power — I -will do 
and say anything you desire. Only give me your hand at part- 
ting.” 

For a moment, Hargood seemed disposed to comply. But a 
sudden revulsion of angry feeling got the better of him, as he put 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


91 


aside the extended hand of Davenport, wlio had followed him to 
the door. 

“ / cmCt /” — cried he. “ By -the God who made me, I can’t — 1 
cant ! — ‘ a servant-maid or worse.’ My sister — my poor sister!” 

lie went straight out of the room, still muttering indignant 
ejaculations; and poor Mary Ibllowed, in trembling silence. As 
she crossed the threshold, she raised her large eyes filled with 
tears to the harassed face of Davenport, and quietly extended 
her hand. 

“Try to make peace between us,” he whispered, gratefully 
pressing it. “Pratq pray let us be friends!” 

But his words were lost in the sobs of his departing guest. 


CHAPTER xir. . 

In the course of the painful disclosures which it was now 
necessary t(> make to Lady Meadowes, so completely did she idse 
to the standard of excellence by which her champion the Rector 
had measured her character, that only once was a harsh word 
forced from her lips. Siie bore with patience the announcement 
that herself and her child were reduced from atfiuence to com- 
parative poverty. She submitted without rqpining to the 
necessity of quitting for ever the home of her married life. But 
when Dr. Burnaby with more zeal than tact ventured to avow in 
her presence those displeasures against poor Sir Mark which he 
had so openly expressed to Lady Harriet, she stopped him at 
once. 

“Hegligeiice — but not culpaljle negligence," my dear Doctor,” 
said she. “You have no right to apply such a word to the 
conduct of my husband. He did his best for us, according to his 
knowledge and judgment.” 

“ He ought to have known letter. Those who undertake the 
responsibilities and duties of a family, ought to make them their 
study.’ 

“ Sir Mark entrusted his affairs to the better wisdom of pro- 
fessional advisers. If they failed to instruct him, on their heads 


92 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


be tlie fault. But once for all, let no blame be imputed to him 1 
have lost.” 

“The woman’s a duncjerhesd' after all,” mused the provoked 
old gentleman as lie drove from the door. “ On their heads be 
the fault indeed! As if they cared a rush about the matter! 
On hers and little Amy’s head will fall the penalty. She don’t 
know what she’s talking about. For the last ihirty years, poor 
ailing soul, she has been Avrapt up in cotton — the winds of Heaven 
not allowed to visit her cheek too roughly. And now she fancies 
it Avill be all pleasantness and pastime to go and live in lodgings, 
and see that pretty creature, Amy, snubbed and scoffed at by 
upstarts not worthy to carry her clogs. Even the darling herself 
looks on as complacent as a cherub ; ignorant, poor child, of the 
accursed realities of the case; pinching poverty and undeserved 
liumiliation.” 

Would the sympathising old man have been better pleased, had 
he known the trutli ? that Amy MeadoAves AA^as cognizant to the 
full extent of the evil AA'hich had beftillen her; — and that she had 
scarcely tasted food, — scarcely closed her eyes, — since she heai-d 
lier sentence of exile from the spot she loved so dearly; — the 
scenes of her youth, — the grave of her lamented father! 

It mattered not that Lady MeadoAves had assumed in l.er 
presence an attitude of perfect resignation. It mattered not that 
the naked fact of their banishment from their happy home had 
been clothed by the Rector in Avords of soothing plausibility. 
Had her OAvn welfare only been involved in the eA^ent, she might 
have been induced to accept it as a trial against which she had 
no right to rebel. But her poor mother! It needed not all the 
tears shed by old Nichols over the miseries* awaiting his poor 
dear lady, to apprise her of the extent of the evil. 

“ Mother, dear mother,”-:— said she, sinking on her knees by 
Lady MeadoAves’s bedside, on the second night after the Avorst 
had been communicated to them ; having stolen back to her 
mother’s chamber after taking leave of her for the night, unable 
to bear in her own the monotonous clicking of the Avatch, and 
the flickering of the Avood on the old hearth. “ Let me stay by 
you to-night; let me comfort yon. I know you cannot be sleep- 
ing. How can either* of us sleep ! Talk to me, mother. Let 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


93 


me hear the sound of your voice. Let me learn your thoughts. 
Till now, I always fancied that I knew them — that we lived 
together like sisters — like friends. But since this dreadful stroke, 

I have seen clearer. I now find that I know nothing of your 
iinvard feelings. Mother — what is to become of us if we do not 
cloarly understand each other !’ — 

As yet incapable of utterance. Lady Meadowes replied to this 
earnest appeal by encircling the neck of her daughter with her 
languid arm, and drawing her fondly towards her pillow. For 
sonic minutes, they wept together in silence. 

“ Fear nothing, my darling Amy,” said she at length. “For 
my sake, as for your own, be brave — be strong. We are strong, 
my child ; strong in mutual aflfection, that will enable us to bear 
and surmount any sorrow this world can give.” 

Amy would not grieve her by dissent. But she was begin- 
ning to think otherwise. She Avas beginning to believe that, 
once estranged from their fixmiliar haunts, and when their liome 
kncAv them no longer, they would stand in need of new friends 
to afford them courage and comfort. Everything beyond the 
limits of Radensford — and there it would have been cruel to en- 
treat lier bereaved mother to abide — presented to the inexpe- 
rienced girl vague pictures of strife and torment : of an angry 
over-reaching crowd, jeering two defenceless women. 

“ Dearest mother, surely I heard you request Dr. Burnaby to 
inform those people — those - lawyers of Sir Jervis’s — that 'wq 
were ready to quit Meadowes Court at once?” said she faintly. 

“ Better make a virtue of necessity, Amy. Do not let us wait • 
to he turned out.” 

“ ISTo, no ! Situated as we are, the effort cannot be made too 
soon. It is only prolonging torment to linger on. I am quite 
prepared to go, mother. But whither?” 

“1 have scarcely yet considered. To Clifton, perhaps. The 
distance is inconsiderable, and the climate likely to be favourable 
to my health.” 

“ Then let us go there at once. But, dearest mother — if I 
were not afraid of vexing and hurting you, there is one question 
I should like to ask — ” 

“Ask it, Amy — I am callous to suffering wom?.” 


04 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


“I once ventured to talk to yon of our^ relations : — not the 
Davenports; if they did not like ns in our poor father’s lifetime, 
tliey are not likely to be kinder now. I mean your own family. 
Surely some of them must survive?” 

“ Would tliat I could answer you. When I married, I had a 
dear and only brother, some years younger than myself: — an im- 
petnons, headstrong boy ; who chose to resent the conduct of the 
Meadowes family in such terms, and to insult your father so 
grossly, that reconciliation became impossible. For some time, 
though tlms estranged, I managed to follow his movements from 
a distance. But at length, by a sudden change, I lost all clue to 
his abode. He was poor, Amy ; poor and obscure, I someiimes 
thought he purposely baffled my search, that he might evade the 
little officious kindnesses with which I pursued him. And now, 

I might as well look for a grain of sand on the shore, as for my 
poor brother in that great metropolis where I left him struggling 
for bread.” 

“ It is indeed a hopeless prospect,” said Amy, mournfully. “ I 
was in hopes that some single hand — some single strong arm — 
might be in reserve to protect us.” 

Lady Meadowes replied by a heavy sigh. She had been in 
liopes so too. But it was not the hand of which Amy had been 
dreaming. With the sagacity of a mother’s eye, she had noted 
the impression made by her daughter upon William Eustace ; 
and though for the moment far from eager to promote a prepos- 
session which she feared wmuld not be sanctioned by his parents, 
yet since her great misfortune. Lady Harriet had inadvertently 
let fall so many hints of the growth and stability of her nephew^’s 
passion, and of her hopes that in the sequel a closer connection 
might unite, as near relatives, those who had been friends so 
long, that the poor invalid had permitted herself to look forward 
to a happy settlement in life for the dear child, the loss of whose 
society would have been to her as a sentence of death. 

But of late these allusions had ceased. For a week past, no 
mention of William Eustace’s name. His aunt seemed to have 
forgotten his existence. Lady Meadowes trusted only that Amy- 
might be less interested than herself in so sudden a change : — 
that she might never have noted Lady Harriet’s insinuations, or 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


95 


ie looking out vainly, like herself, for the appearance of a faith- 
less cliarnpion. 

It was some allusion to tliis subject she bad apprehended fi oni 
Amy's uncontrollable distress of mind. She felt tlianklnl to find 
that her daughter’s yearnings were after the solace of natural 
ties ; and was comforted when the repining girl consented to 
receive her parting benediction for the night, and retire to rest 
in her own adjoining room. 

Mut tlie chord which Amy liad touched did not cease to'vi- 
brate. Throughout tlie watches of the night, the image of the 
brother from whom slie had been so long parted, kept recurring 
to the mind of Lady Meadowes. She could not accuse herself 
of having neglected him. She had done all tliat a person dis- 
connected Irom London and active liie could effect, to obtain a 
clue to his re-idence. But often as she had grieved before, on 
Jiis account, that ho chose to hold himself aloof, it was now on 
her own she began fo lament his estrangement. If she should 
die (and her heart often sank within her from growing weak- 
ness), who was to protect her orphan child ? Her good neigh- 
bours at the Rectory and at Radensford were kind and willing. 
But both were aged ; and they had families and household cares 
of their own. Her brother — she recalled him to her mind’s eye 
as when, a fine lion-hearted young fellow of twenty, though only 
a struggling and a poor servitor — he had rushed up from Oxford, 
on hearing of the insults- ofi'ered to her by the Meadowes family, 
and done iier irreparable injury by his intemperate interference. 
His noble forehead — his open countenance — his closed-curled 
raven hair — rose up before her. Already highly excited, the 
~ impression upon her nerves became so vivid, that she could 
almost have fancied he was present ; — her feverLh condition 
being such as has produced more than half the best-attested 
ghost-stories on record. Even when, towards morning, she 
dropped asleep, the last impression slie retained — an impression 
that prevailed during lier almost somnambulistic sleep — was 
that Edward Hargood was watching Over her. 

Such being the disordered state of her imagination, it was not 
wonderful that when, on w’aking next morning and ringing her 
bell some liours later than usual, and on inquiring for her daugh- 


96 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


ter, she was told that Miss Amy was engaged in the drawing- 
room, speaking to a gentleman who had arrived from town — ■ 
her half-miirmiired exclamation should be — “I knew it! My 
brother is come at last.” 

She made an effort to rise hastily; which, like most hasty 
efforts, defeated itself. For before her toilet was half accom- 
plished, she was forced by faintness to lie down again. Her 
daughter was instantly fetched : a great relief to Amy ; to whom 
tiie “ gentleman in the drawing-room ” had proved a most em- 
barrassing visitor. Kot Edward Hargood however: — no one 
but his sister could have imagined so improbable an incident as 
his falling from the clouds upon Meadowes Court ; and though 
from the flush upon her cheek as she approached. Lady Mea- 
dowes discerned in a moment that the interview from which she 
had been summoned was one of unusual interest, she was too 
feeble to utter a syllable of inquiiy. 

Amy waited till she was alone with her mother to allude to it. 
Even when she simply announced — “Mr. Eustace, mamma, has 
been here ” — she trusted Lady Meadowes would conclude that 
he had walked over from the Manor House, to make formal in- 
quiries after their health. She did not Avish her mother’s mind 
to be agitated, as her own had recently been. 

Lady Meadowes’s murmured ejaculation of “Thank Heaven!” 
undeoeived her at once: even before she found the hand enfold- 
ing her own, to be moistened with tears. She dared not, 
however, interrogate her as to the motive of her gratitude. The 
mother was the first to speak. 

“ I was sadly afraid, dear Amy,” said she, “that he would not 
return. I feared that his parents would never countenance his 
attachment.” 

“ You were aware of it then, mother ? Yet he assures me ho 
had never said a Avord to you on the subject.” 

“A mother’s eye, my child, is to be trusted on such points. 
All I dreaded Avas that I had been too sanguine.” 

“ You wish to lose me, then ?” said Amy, AAuth a SAvelling 
heart. 

“For myself, I do not allow myself a Avish. For you, all I 
desire is a safe and happy home.” 


PROGRESS AND PREJCDICE. 


97 


Amy’s face grew sadder and sadder. It was grievons to think 
how great a disappointment was preparing for that kind, unselfish 
mother. 

“ Is Mr. Eustace gone inquired Lady Meadowes, endeavour- 
ing to rally her strength. “ When shall I see him ? Wlien will 
he return ? When are we to meet 

Never, dear mother !” replied Amy, in a low, unsteady voice. 
“But could I have thought — could I have believed — your heart 
was set upon my marrying him, I should have folind less 
courage to assure him Just now that I could never become his 
wife !” 

“Ilou have William Eustace?” faltered Lady Mea- 

dowes. 

The assent implied by Amy’s grave silence was not to be 
mistaken. 

“ And Avhy ? You always appeared to like his society ?” 

“ As an acquaintance, mother ; as nearer my own age than 
Dr. Burnaby or Admiral Tremenheere.” 

“ But during his illness, you show'ed such symptoms of in- 
terest ? — ” 

“lie wasDady Ilarriet’s favourite nephew. We were inmates 
under the same roof.” 

“Snrel}’, surely, Amy,” pleaded Lady Meadowes, still more 
surprised and distressed, “you have no secret object of pre- 
ference ? You have seen no one worthy to supplant — ” 

“ On that point, be perfectly easy, dearest mother,” inter- 
rupted Amy. “ I have no other love or liking. All I desire is 
that I never may. Let us still be all in all to each other, and I 
am content. But to marry, for an establishment — for bread — 
a man for whom I feel no atfection, would degrade me in my 
own eyes, and render life a burthen.” 

“ I can say no more,” said Lady l^Ieadowes, with her usual 
meek resignation. But her eyes brimming with tears could not 
conceal from her daughter the greatness of her disappointment. 
She tried to busy herself in dressing, to avoid dwelling too pain- 
fully on the subject. But her movements were so languid and 
her air so depressed, that Amy was forced to avert her face and 
stifle her self-reproaches : gazing vaguely from the dreseing-room 

5 


98 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


windoTV over a vast expanse of half-melted sno'W', varied only hy 
leafless woods and a few mournful fir-trees ; — a cheering contera- 
jflation for her wounded heart. 

A heavy sigh from Lady Meadowes, Avho was now reclining in 
lier arm-chair, roused poor Amy trom her reverie. 

“ Let it aftbrd some consolation to you, mother,” said she, 
sudden!}’- turning her tearful face towards Lady Meadowes, “ to 
know that Mr, Eustace's offer of his hand was made under cir- 
cumstances which even you will admit to be a sufllcient justifi- 
cation of my refusal, though I admit that I was wholly 
unaware of them when I declined his proposals. He has asked 
me to be his wife in direct defiance of his father’s authority, 
liis parents have positively refused their consent. Lady Harriet 
has done her utmost to dissuade him from the match. Friends 
■ — family — all were against it.’” 

A deep flash — ^but not of indignation or resentment — over- 
spread the pale face of Lady Meadowes. 

“Mr. Eustace would probably not have confided so much to 
me, had I evinced the gratitude whicli he seemed to think his 
confession demanded,” resumed Amy, reddening in her turn. 
“But when he found that, instead of being amazed at his asking 
a penniless girl to be his wife, I frankly told him we could never 
be happy together, he lost his temper; and with as little delicacy 
as justified my previous opinion of him, apprised me of all he had 
sacrificed and all he had braved, in order to court wdiat he called 
my ungracious rejection.” 

Lady Meadowes shuddered at the idea of her young and timid 
daughter having been exposed to a scene of so much emotion. 

“ Mr. Eustace had no right to force such an explanation on 
you,” said she, “ unauthorised by myself or your guardians. It 
was a disrespect to us all that he sought this private interview.” 

“ Oil that head, dear mother, let him stand excused,” said 
Amy. “He came here to see you — he asked for you only. But 
you were too unwell to be disturbed ; and, little surmising the 
object of his visit, I hurried into the drawing-room to explain it. 
1 believe he was not quite master Df himself. He has been ha- 
rassed and upbraided on my account by his family; and the dread 
that Lady Harriet might be beforehand with him here, to ac- 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


99 


qnaint you with his’ father’s threats and exasperation, hastened 
his explanations and rendered his manner so flurried and excited, 
that it was indeed a relief when the interview was at an end.” 

“ Then let us talk of it no more, my darling child,” said Lady 
Meadowes, folding her daughter to her heart. “ A marriage 
under such auspices was indeed undesirable. I have only to he 
thankful that I was mistaken in my estimate of your feelings to- 
wards him. Let us talk of him no more.” 


CHAPTER XIII. 

Ilford Castle is a beautiful spot, situated in one of the most 
favored counties in the district of Lake-land. An English home 
usually boasts its cheerful fringe of evergreens, to form, in combi- 
nation with the glowing hearths within, a factitious, nameless 
season, which has no direct mission from the sun. 

Captain Davenport, as he drove up towards what it becomes 
our wire-wove pages to call the “ hall of his ancestors,” pondered 
upon these things. 

“ By Jove ! how comfortable it all looks,” said he, as he wrap- 
ped his railway rug of racoon-skins closer round him, in the fly 
that conveyed himself and his traps from the railway station. 
‘•How Christmassy and cheerful, with its hospitable blue smokes 
circling from the roof, like one of Washington Irving’s Utopian 
pictures of British domesticity! And how wrong 1 may have 
been to muddle my brains and derange my system among the 
November fogs of yonder confounded metropolis. Here, I might 
have been happy — here, I might have been well — here, I might 
have been ” 

He paused. A burst of monologic laughter startled him in the 
midst of his soliloquy. In a moment, the real state of things at 
Ilford Castle flashed upon his mind — recalling to memory a 
sketch he had once made after one of ^sop’s fables, of the fox 
moralising over a Vizard. 

“ Ah ! — well ! ” was his secondary view of the case and the 
place — “ it needs to have been in Bridewell and worn the hand- 
cuffs, to know that so goodly-looking an edifice is but a prison.” 


/ 


too 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


He no longer, however, even in thought, ventured to call Ilford 
Castle a prison, when welcomed under the portico by his cordial 
brother; or folded to the heart of Lady Davenport, on the 
threshold other own apartment. Attired in the deepest mourn- 
ing, his mother looked worn and harassed; and the manner in 
wliich she leant back in his enfolding arms to look earnestly in 
his face, as if to read the secret of his welfare, seemed to apprise 
him that she sought comfort from the source that was dearest 
to her lieart. 

“ And you are come at last, my own dear Mark,” said she, 
scarcely able to stanch the tears which afforded a mother’s greet- 
ing to the truant. “ Hugh and I have wanted you sadly.” 

“ And my father ?” 

“ Lord Davenport has so lost all patience, that he has ceased 
to talk about your delay.” 

“But is he prepared with extenuating circumstances? Is the 
fatted calf on the spit, or am I doomed to husks and recriminatory 
lectures?” 

“Tliat will depend on yourself. But for all our sakes, my 
own dear son, do not wantonly provoke them. Your father is 
not in — in cheerful spirits.” 

“ Y'ou mean tliat he is savage and out of temper ?’’ 

“ I mean that he has had lately more than his share of annoy- 
ance and lu’ovocation. And then your brother Hugh — dear 
and good as he is — has completely disappointed his views.” 

“ Because my father wanted him to become a sounding brass 
and tinkling cymbal ; a millionnaire in the copper currency of 
vulgar popularity — a man to be bought off by some future 
government with an additional pearl or two to the family 
coronet; or — who knows?— eventually strangled with a Garter? 
Instead of which, ray brother is as wise as Solomon, and just as 
Minos.” 

“ My dearest Mark — w'hy so bitter ?” mildly remonstrated his 
mother. 

“Because — because — because I’m afraid I have naturally 
something of the crabstock in my nature,” said he, not daring to 
assign the real motive of his unfilial outbreak. “ However, 
mother, for your sake, I will endeavor to engraft better fruit 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


101 


upon it. I fear,” he continued, glancing hurriedly at her suit 
of sables, and then significantly at the door, “I greatly fear you 
have yourself lately had cause for sorrow.” 

Lady Davenport’s brow contracted. 

“ I would not for worlds give you pain, mother — but — ” 

“If you really would not give me pain, say no more on the 
subject,” replied Lady Davenport. “ Let it suffice that I have 
lost my nearest living relative — with the consciousness of having 
acted an unworthy part towards him. 

“ Thank you, at least, for that admission,” said her son, taking 
her hand, and fervently kissing it — a little to the surprise of Lady 
Davenport. A moment afterwards, Hugh made his appearance ; 
having allowed what he believed to be time enough for confiden- 
tial conversation between his mother and her favourite cliild. 
Then came their young sister, Olivia, blushing and formal from 
the school-room ; always a little in awe of her bronzed and 
travelled brother. They soon, however, began to talk themselves 
out of the awkwardness which absence is apt to engender even 
among those most closel}^ united ; and mother, brother, sister, 
were as undisguisedly enchanted at Marcus’s having condescended 
to come down and spend his Christmas among them, as though 
he were a lost sheep restored to the fold. 

Even Lord Davenport rejoiced, after his kind, over the arrival 
of his younger son — gave him his whole hand instead of his cus- 
tomary three fingers; and went to the frantic extremity of a 
second bottle of claret. But this effort of hospitality had better 
have been omitted. For, under its influence, both father and 
son gradually laid aside those restraints over the unruly member, 
which were alone likely to maintain peace between the two. 

“ If the weather continues open, Marcus, which I doubt,” said 
his lordship, “I should like to take you to-morrow over the 
home-farm. I never saw the Swedes, or indeed any of the 
winter crops, look anything like what they are looking this 
Christmas. Smith, my new bailiff, has done wonders ; a very 
superior man, Marcus, is Smith. AVe have sent two fat oxen 
and a heifer up to the Smithfield Show ; and a pair of Herefords 
to Edinburgh, which I flatter myself will make some sensation. 
As to my pigs, both my mixed breeds and my pure Chinas 


102 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 

obtained premiums at the Kendal Exhibition. Yes, I have every 
reason to be proud of Smith.” 

“ Pity that you can’t exhibit liim^ and get a premium for a 
prize bailifi'! It would be the higher ambition of the two,” 
muttered Mark, who was waxing fractious under the pressure 
of the plough and harrow. 

“ I think you will find that we have made some wonderful 
improvements, Mark, icon-der-ful improvements !” added the 
lord of Ilford, gradually sunning himself in the genial warmth of 
the huge wood fire, and the Chateau Margaux. 

“I am glad to hear it, my lord,” replied his son, “ and heartily 
trust I may see it. I glanced, however, down Quag Lane- as I 
drove here this evening — and regretted to perceive that horrible 
line of old cottages still standing — or rather, still falling.” 

“There’s ten years’ life in them yet, I fiatter myself,” replied 
Lord Davenport. “ Ilton Cottages bring me in something like 
sixty-seven pounds a-year, Mark.” 

“ More shame for them,” was Mark’s dauntless rejoinder. “ I 
should like to hear the opinion of your lordship’s pigs, if turned 
into them for a sty !” 

“ The people are satisfied with them — which is more to the 
purpose. Most of the inhabitants were born there.” 

“And how many of them have died there? Does your lord- 
ship remember the fever in 1832 ?” — 

“You have taken up the humanity-dodge, have you, [Mark?’ 
sneered Lord Davenport, whose sacramental notions of “ improv- 
ing” an estate consisted of high-farming and high rent. “Like 
Hugh yonder — who seems half asleep, and is probably dreaming 
of laborers’ model-cottages, or some other philanthropical toy of 
that description — agrarian playthings, woven in spun sugar!” 

“ I was dreaming of something far less important, I am afraid,” 
said Hugh, starting up, anxious to give a new turn to the con- 
versation. “ I was wondering how many days your lordship 
would claim to lionise my brother; before I made an appoint- 
ment with my friend Harley, for his otter hounds ?” 

Lord Davenport, who had not vigour of soul or body for 
ssportmanship of any description, did not of course refuse himself 
a snarl at the humanity of his otter-hunting sons. He tried in 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


103 


vaiD, however, to draw back tlie conversation to Smith and his 
mangold wurzel ; and I'evenged himsolf for the disrespectful 
apathy of his son Alark by talking of poor-law and pauper bas- 
tilles* till coffee was announced, in a style that might have 
converted liis wooden brethren of the Quarter Sessions into 
stone. 

‘■‘ifo smoking allow'ed in any of the company’s carriages, I 
lind,” said Mark to his brother, when they met, that night, in 
the comfortless dressing-room allotted to Hugh — because in the 
late lord’s time, it had been apportioned to his father as son and 
heir. 

“Ho — on that point, my father aiid mother are alike rigid. 
Those, who cannot dispense with a cigar, must repair to the 
stable-yard.” 

“Pleasant winter quarters upon my wordi-r-The governor 
seems as companionable as ever, my dear Hugh ; — as much in- 
clined to live and let live.” 

“He as been unusiialiy cheerful to-night in honour of your 
arrival,” replied the simi)le-hearted Hugli, deceived by his irony. 

“ And my mother — poor soul — how thin and depressed she is 
looking. Tell me, dear Hugh — ^}-oii were .here when she received 
tidings of her brother’s death. How did they reach her?” 

“My father read the announcement aloud from the news- 
paper. He chooses always to be the first to dispense the news 
brought by the TimesP' 

“And was she very deeply affected?” ^ 

“ You know how she makes it a point of conscience to conceal 
her feelings from my father, if likely to annoy him. She said 
little — shed few tears. But next morning, she looked ten years 
older.” 

“And does so still. But explain to me a little about old Sir 
Mark Aleadowes, and his widow — ” 

“ I know little more than yourself. His dowager mother, old 
Lady Meadowes, quarrelled witli him for marrying his sister’s 
governess; and my father has consistently kept up the quarrel. 
Tliere was no congeniality between them. They differed in po- 
litics as on moijt other points. And I suspect my father was 


104 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


glad to shake off a half-mined brother-in-law, who liad dis- 
graced the family by a low connection.” 

“ What my father was glad of, or sorry for, is scarce worth 
speculating upon!” cried Mark, who, in pure impatience, was 
beginning to tear impatiently into shreds the pages of his Brad- 
shaw — the only specimen of ancient or modern literature to be 
found in one of the bed-chambers of Ilford Castle. “But that 
my mother should submit to it! — ” 

“ When does she do otherwise than ‘•submit V Her whole life 
has been an act of submission.” 

“ Say of slavishness !” — cried the indignant Mark. “And we 
two, Hugh, are getting as bad hei*self : 

They who allow oppression share the crime.” 

“ A sonorous watchword of sedition 1” said Hugh — smiling at 
his vehemence. “ But when experience proves that the resis- 
tance of the weak against the strong, only drives them into 
grosser tyranny, passive obedience becomes not only an act 
of policy, but a virtue.” 

“ I deny it to be either I — Had my poor mother steadily re- 
sisted from the first my father’s system of domestic oppression, 
he would not have hardened into what he is. 

“ And she would not be half the angel she is ; and we should 
love her far less dearly.” 

“ Speak for yourself, Hugh. For my share, I should respect 
her twice as much.” 

“ And yet, my blustering brother, I suspect that, should a Mrs. 
Marcus I), ever appear on the boards, and pretend to have a ■will 
of her own, it will only be hers in so far as you have peremp- 
torily assigned it to her.” 

Marcus paused a moment in his work of destruction. He had 
more than once secretly taxed himself with having inherited 
something of his father’s despotic temper. He now felt self- 
convicted that the sole attachment or rather preference of w’hich 
he had been ever conscious, was for one who charmed him 
chiefly as an uncomplaining domestic victim. Hor could any- 
thing be more certain than that the strong interest he was 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


105 


beginning to feel in the fate of Mary Hargood, arose in the first 
instance from tlie sight of her quiet resignation. 

“ There never will be a Mrs. Mark Davenport,” he replied, in 
a more pacific tone, “ unless, when King Hugh comes to the 
throne, he choose to allot a cottage and cow’s grass to his poor 
dog of a younger brother, for the maintenance of a brood of 
young barbarians ; or unless is reigning majesty of Ilford will 
sanction my surrendering my sword, like Sterne’s Marquis, and 
taking up a yard measure or a camel’s-hair brush — which my 
father seems to hold in the same light, as equally badges of trade. 
But even if there were^ I know no one more likely than myself 
to be a hen-pecked husband. It is the common fate of great 
lieroes — from Mark Antony and Marlborough, to Mark Me.” 

“The very man for a Jerry Sneak, certainly!” replied his 
brother, surveying him with a smile, overjoyed to see him laps- 
ing into good humour. “ Whereas I — whom you sometitnes 
insolently characterise as the meekest man, after Moses — pretend 
to be, in man ied life, a very Brnin. I am by no means one of 
those who proclaim the equality of the sexes.” 

“It is somewhat too early in the day (and a little too late at 
night) to enter into the great question of White Slave Abolition,” 
rejoined Mark, convinced that, in the hope of changing the ar- 
gument, his brother was giving utterance to sentiments foreign 
to his own. And in order to release him from his false position, 
he began to discuss otter-hunting in all its branches, and their 
friend Harley’s pack in particular, till the waning of the candles 
in their sconces warned them to rest. 

An early opportunity, however, was seized by Marcus for put- 
ting to the test the feelings of his sorrowing mother towards her 
brother’s family. 

“ Hugh endeavours to heal her wounded heart with balsams 
and unguents,” argued he. “ I will try the probe, and astrin- 
gents. Momentary torture sometimes produces lasting cure.” 

When, therefore, a few days after his arrival, the illness of 
Olivia’s governess, a kind-hearted elderly German, who had 
attended her from childhood, gave rise to the momentuous ques- 
tion of a successor, in case Madame Winkelried’s indisposition 
should necessitate her retirement from ofiice, Marcus took occasion 

5 * 


106 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE, 


to suggest to his mother, whom he was driving in her pony- 
phaeton through the park, that it was time his sister should be 
placed under more intellectual tutorage than that of the motherly 
old Franconian. 

“ Who is nevertheless a mine of information,” replied Lady 
Davenport ; “ and who has taught her almost all it is necessary 
for a woman to know, without allowing her to acquire an idea or 
feeling which it would be desirable a woman should forget.” 

“Still, it would be pleasanter for a girl so nearly on the verge 
of womanhood to have a more congenial companion. I suspect, 
mother, that solicitude for myself and Hugh had some share in 
your choice of Olivia’s governess? You were afraid of a second 
snake in the grass, — a second Mary Hargood ?” 

Lady Davenport was silent for some minutes — not, as her son 
supposed, from embarrassment, but from profound emotion. 

“ Yo fear of my encountering on this side the grave a second 
Mary Hargood,” said she at length, in faltering accents. “If 
there ever lived a perfect being, Mark, it was she. To maintain 
her widowed mother, she undertook duties which ought not to 
have been made what they were, in my father’s house. For while 
to me slie was the fondest of friends, as well as best of instruc- 
tresses, every opportunity was afforded by my parents for the 
growth of that affection between her and poor Mark, which 
ripened into a frantic passion. He was wild, wayward — a spend- 
thrift — a prodigal. They wanted to reclaim him. They wanted 
to attach him to home. They wanted to preserve himself and his 
patrimony from utter ruin. And at whose cost? At that of the 
poor little governess, whose beauty and talents were to attract 
him to the dull fireside he had hitherto shunned for gayer 
scenes.” 

“ And they succeeded ?” inquired Mark, with unspeakable 
interest — ^finding his mother, overpowered by her feelings, pause 
for breath. 

“ They succeeded. My brother was always with us — what an 
acquisition to Mary — what an acquisition to me ! How happy we 
all three were together ! How doubly pleasant were the woods 
and fields of Meadowes Court — dear, dear old Meadowes Court I” 

And again, she paused and wept. 


PROtSRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


107 


’'‘^Aiid did you never suspect, mother, the state of feeling of 
your companions?” 

“ Never. To my shame be it spoken, Mark, I inherited the 
notion, then universal in our class of society, that governesses, 
however endowed, and however attractive, — were a prohibited 
caste; — parias, with whom alliance was as impossible as with 
negroes or Red Indians,” 

Had he confided to you, then, that he was in love with Mary 
Ilargood, you Avould have shrunk from it as from something 
indecent, or the avowal of a crime!” 

“ 1 was never put to the trial. He never did confide it to me, 
I knew nothing on the subject till the discovery had been made 
by my mother, and Mary expelled the house.” 

“And you gave up your friend without a struggle! Oh! 
mother!” — 

“ Ah ! my dear Mark, — ^if you only knew how little any efi:brt 
of mine w'ould have availed her cause. What you term a 
struggle, — that is a remonstrance with my parents, — would have 
been called rebellion, and denounced as the result of her evil 
ies;ons.” 

Mark Davenport unconsciously shrugged his shoulders, 

“I did hope,” she resumed, “hoped for years, that I might 
obtain suiTicient influence over your father to induce him to favour 
a reconciliation.” 

Lord Davenport’s undutifiil son reasoned within himself that 
to endeavour to soften his lordship’s stubborn nature was about 
as hopeful a task as (to use Cowper’s expression,) to ‘ clap a blister 
on the Avooden pate of a Avig-block.’ 

“But a thousand circumstances combined against me,” con- 
tinued his mother. “Mary had a wrong-headed brother, who 
stirred up coals of discord : a violent man — a violent Avriter — a 
democrat — Avho seemed to take delight in irritating and disgust- 
ing the family. Then, my poor dear brother himself did a 
thousand vexatious things to Aviden the breach.” 

“ And you literally, from the day of rupture till now, never 
beheld them again ?” 

“I could not have done so, unless in defiance of your father’s 
will, by journeying down to MeadoAves Court. From the day of 


108 


PKOGIIESS AND PREJUDICE. 


his inarriage, my brother abjured London, as a place in -whicli lie 
had no longer a part.” 

Wise man! — Happy inaril” — 

“ Thank God, he was happy — wliich is the best proof of his 
T/isdoin, or of any one’s wisdom,” said Lady Davenport. ‘■‘•I 
believe no one ever led a more contented life.” 

“But why so sure of it, since no communication ever took 
place between you?” 

“ A sister of Lady Louisa Eustace resides within a couple of 
miles of Meadowes Court; and through them, I have heard 
frequently of my brother and his wife — ” 

“ Lady Louisa Eustace,” repeated Mark, musingly, as if endea- 
vouring to recall the n^mo to his mind. 

“The Eustaces of Ilorndean Court. Sir Henry is an old 
schoolfellow of your father, and Lady Louisa one of Lord Daven- 
port’s few favourites. He told me the other day that there was 
something of a project between them to maiTy Olivia to their son.” 

“Olivia? That child r— 

“ You forget how time runs on. IsText year, she will be pre- 
sented. But I trust many more will pass before I am called upon 
to resign her to a husband ; above all, to one of any other person’s 
choosing than her own.” 

“And these Eustaces are friends of poor Lady Meadowes?” 

“They have never even seen her. But Lady Harriet Warne- 
ford. Lady Louisa’s sister, resides at Radensford Manor house ; and 
through her and them, the first intelligence reached me of my 
brother’s death.” 

“ And what of his widow ? Surely mother, you have written 
to her ?” 

“ I resolved to do so — I made the attempt. But every Avord 
that came to my pen seemed like an insult to my brother’s 
memory. To have remained silent so long; and then, the mo- 
ment lie Avas laid in the grave, burst through all prohibitions to 
address her Avho had been the cause of the estrangement betAveen 
^19 ! — There was something unnatural in it, Mark.” 

“ On the contrary. It was all the atonement you could otFer 
to his memory. What Avas unnatural in it? Nothing that is 
humane, mother, can ever be unnatural.” 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


109 


“I felt that, in Mary’s place, I should return the letter un- 
opened. In shoi t, dear Mark, I dared not write.” 

“ Oh ! that miserable mortal cowardice ! What fools, and 
sometimes what knaves it makes of us!” sighed Mark Daven- 
port. 

“ Had she required aid or assistance from me, it Avould have 
been another thing,” pleaded his mother. But “ Lady Meadowes 
is very well off. She and her child inherit the Meadowes Court 
estate — iiiore than two thousand a-year. I have little doubt that 
the partial reconciliation I should be able to propose, (for your 
father would never be a party to it), would be painful and em- 
barrassing to her rather than otherwise.” 

“Not it" she be the kind and perfect being you have described. 
At all events, mother, for the ease of your own conscience, make 
the attempt.” 

Lady Davenport gravely shook her head. Their drive was 
drawing to a termination. They were within view of Ilford 
Castle, with all its dreary associations of marital and paternal 
authority. The iron gauntlet of the domestic tyrant seemed 
again pressing upon her neck, and bending down her spirit. 

“ Then let me P 

“ You, Mark ?” 

“ Let me write, or better still, let me go — ” 

“ To a person you have never seen ? — A place you have never 
visited ?” — 

“ Why not — ^if I visit it in your name, as a messenger of 
peace ?” 

“ And your father ?”— 

“ My father troubles himself very little about my movements, 
unless when he has to pay for them. He need not be apprised 
of tJiisY 

“ I have no secrets from him, Mark.” 

“ I have many. If I venture to behave myself like a Christian 
towards my aunt and cousin — ” 

“Hush, hush! — for Heaven's sake, hush!” whispered Lady 
Davenport — for they had now entered the court-yard. 

“ I shall of course do it with a mental reservation ; like the 
young Irish lady who went through the marriage ceremony, 


/ 


110 PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 

adding to each response, ‘provided my father gives his con- 
sent.’ ” 

Hugh Davenport noticed with delight, that day at dinner, 
that Ills mother’s eyes looked far less heavy than usual ; and 
Olivia, who rarely ventured to utter an opinion in lier father’s 
presence, took courage to say that she wan sure her mother’s 
drive in the open carriage with Marcus, had done her good : — 
a remark which deepened the faint tinge of colour on her 
ladyship’s pallid cheek. 

Lord Davenport was of opinion, on the contrary, that her 
spirits must have been raised by the thriving aspect of his farm. 
But Marcus could not help hoping that his darling mother felt 
gratified by a project which she dared not openly sanction. 
Who can say which was the true surmise? — The secrets of that 
harassed heart lay betwixt herself and Heaven I 


CHAPTER XIY. 

Love is your only modern alchemist ; — transmutation of cha- 
racter being the substitute for transmutation of metals. Love, 
which had rendered the self-seeking William Eustace humble, 
was already rendering the frank, reckless Mark Davenport 
cautious and sage. 

Instead of rushing off the following day to fulfil his promise to 
himself and his mother of visiting Meadowes Court, he judged it 
j)rudent not to incense Lord Davenport by disappointing his ex- 
pectations of completing his family circle at Ilford, during the 
Christmas holidays. It was one of the old customs to which 
he clung as to a duty — a duty towards Public Opinion. His 
fat cattle were slain — his strong beer broached — his offspring 
collected under his roof. And if their mirthfulness were a little 
dashed by the overclouding of parental authority, or diluted 
by a copious admixture of paternal prose, the county paper, 
which duly announced their Christmas festivities, was none the 
wiser. 

So poor Marcus stayed, and listened. Lord Davenport conde- 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


Ill 


scended to notice to Hugh that never had he seen his younger son 
so companionable or so rational. And as the for once self-gov- 
erned Mark was able to occupy his mornings to his satisfaction, 
by giving lessons in his favourite art to his interesting young 
sister, the four weeks of his sentence to what he called the House 
of Correction, passed far less tediously than he had expected. 
Association with three natures so gentle and refined as those of 
his mother, his brother, and the timid Olivia, had almost tamed 
the wild. elephant by the time he started for the South. 

February had sot in, bright and sunny, as that most deceptions 
niontli occasionally does, as if to add unnecessary bitterness to 
the biting blasts of its successor ; and never perhaps in his life 
had Marcus been conscious of such elasticity of spirits as when 
progressing with his dog and portmanteau from those beautiful 
dales, where he saw only scenes worthy the pencil of Turner or 
Lee, and Lord Davenport ori^y wilds to be converted by the 
appliance of patent manure — towards the sunny banks of the 
Severn. 

He fancied himself on the eve of a new era of his existence. 
He was about to redress an injury. He was about, like some 
liero of the antique world, to propitiate Heaven by atonement 
for an ancestral crime. What more he purposed or anticipated, 
it matters little to inquire. For so prone are we to deceive our- 
selves, that, had he been asked whether the pacification of Har- 
good had any share in his movements, he would have replied by 
a negative as indignant as usually forms the response to questions 
convicting us as impostors. 

Marcus had despatched his active and assiduous servant straight 
from Ilford Castle to town ; for over-active and assiduous 
servants are apt to prove as troublesome appendages as inquisi- 
tive friends. He was consequently responsible to no one for the 
erratic nature of his movements ; nor was there a single prying 
eye to notice that his hand shook strangely while making his 
elaborate toilet at Cardington, previous to entering tlie fly about 
to convey him to Meadowes Court — the home of his mother’s 
childhood — the stronghold of her time-honoured race. 

“What would I give if this visit had taken place in the lifetime 
of my poor old uncle !” said he, as he surveyed the wide pastures 


112 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


dividing Oardington from Radensford, so exciting to the eye of 
the Ibx-hunter. “ How I should have liked the jolly old sports- 
man, who appears to have sown and reaped his wild oats in a 
single harvest, and to have had but one mind during the re- 
mainder of his life. A great thing that !” 

In passing hurriedly through Radensford, he noted the old 
lichen-stained lodge leading to the Manor-House — and the 
Rectory, with its trim shrubbery of laurels. The cottages looked 
wholesome and cheerful. The country did not wear that con- 
strained aspect of tlie highly-farmed environs of Ilford — clearly 
belonging to a proprietor who regarded the kindly fruits of the 
earth but as the means of increasing the balance of his banker’s 
book, or creating an ideal capital in tliat misty and mysterious 
abyss of property, called Public Securities. 

“ My poor mother ! What a change for her, from this plea- 
sant open country to the narrofv horizon of Ilford,” thought 
Marcus, as at length, through a glade in the forest of Burdans 
already brightened by patches of yellow gorse, which in the dis- 
tance gleamed like scatterings of sunshine, he discovered the 
outline of the old family mansion. 

And lo! a few minutes more conveyed him to Meadowes 
Court. To his utter dismay, he saw that the -vvindow-shutters 
were closed, and the chimneys smokeless ! 

“How is this?” said he to the driver, who seemed to hesitate 
about pulling the bell, which probably there was no one to 
answer. “ Is not the family here ?” 

“Sir Jervis ben’t a come yet. Sir. They do say he ben’t a 
coming. Master heerd a talk as the place war to be let ; and 
there’d been priest folk from Bristol, a looking a’ ter it, to make 
wJiat’s called a Summin-hairy.” 

“ But Lady Meadowes and her daughter ?” 

Sir Jervis ever a lady. Sir ?” 

“ The widow of the late Sir Mark — ” 

“ Oh ! the widder. Sir. Pity but Avhat you’d mentioned it 
afore you left Card’nt’n. She’s gun away for good an’ all. Went 
jist afore Christmas, Sir. There’s been a sale here, sin’ then ; 
which brought all the gentlefolk of the keounty for twenty mile 
round.” 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


113 


If any one averse to profane swearing had been jnst then 
within earshot, Mark Davenport might have risked both fine and 
remonstrance. He was vexed beyond measure — beyond measure 
disappointed. Ilis feelings had been wound up to a pitch of 
excitement and exjiectation, from which it was difficult for a 
being so unreasonable to fall with decency. 

“But whither was the widow gone — and where was her 
daughter ?” 

Ah ! that the flyman didn’t pretend to know. And he began 
zealously pulling at the door-bell, in hopes of amending his igno- 
rance. For some time their united efforts produced no result. 
At length a slatternly servant-girl peeped sulkily through the 
half-opened door, of which she had found the chain too hard to 
unbolt ; one of those blighted slips of human nature, which 
nothing but a house agent or lodging-house keeper ever contrives 
to rake out of the human rubbish-heap. 

To a reiteration of Captain Davenport’s queries respecting 
Lady Meadowes, she had no answer to afford. Of the late 
family, she knew nothing. She and a deaf old mother were 
engaged by the attorney of the present proprietor, to take care 
of the empty walls of the old mansion, till something should be 
arranged respecting its occupancy. To his request to “ see the 
house,” she replied that it was. “all shut up and though a 
liandsome gratuity eventually enlightened her mind as to the 
possibility _pf opening the shutters, she did her spiriting in the 
operation far more like a Caliban than an Ariel. 

As the little slovenly maid of all work proceeded to open the 
shutters and admit the tell-tale brightness of the midday sun, 
Marcus was almost tempted to bid her close them again. If this 
was Meadowes Court, he had seen enough of it. 

The girl insisted, however — as if she thought her fee would 
otherwise be unhandsomely earned — on escorting him through 
the house : — and though his disgusts and mortification increased 
at every step, he was pleased for a moment by the light and 
])retty hangings of the room designated as “ Miss’s,” adjoining 
the vast old oak-wainscoated apartment of “ my lady.” 

“ And was the whole furniture sold then?” he inquired— as 


lU 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


he looked from the wide Elizabethan windows over the well- 
timbered paddock. 

‘‘ A’niost all,” she believed. “ Everything had been removed 
afore she came. Muster Preston, the lawyer, know’d all about 
It, and could tell where the ladies was to be heerd on.” 

To the lawyers, therefore, wTiose address she communicated, 
Marcus was fain to refer himself for further information ; and 
cheerless indeed was his drive back to Cardington, with a tired 
horse and grumbling driver — all three frustrated in their expec- 
tations. No longer surveying the landscape with the eye of a 
fox-hunter or an artist, Marcus rolled himself up like a hedgehog 
in a corner of the fly : swearing at the climate — the county, the 
country — and occasionally including himself and all his members 
in his imprecations. 

But if the feelings of the young soldier, a comparative stranger, 
were thus deeply touched by the desolation of the venerable 
Stamm-Haiis of the Meadowes family, what must have been the 
grief of poor little Amy on witnessing the desecration of their 
lares and penates ! In all her plans and resolutions, the conduct 
of Lady Meadowes had been regulated by regard for the future 
interests of her daughter. Placing her own predilecti(jns entirely 
out of the question, she did not allow herself to retain a single 
object or article that could be advantageously disposed of for the 
benefit of the little fund that was to form her daughter’s future 
dependence. At first, indeed, the advisers of Sir Jervis had 
suggested that much of the property — such as plate and pictures 
• — was heir-loom. But of this, he could produce no evidence , 
and the Will of Sir Mark, bequeathing his personaty specifically 
to his widow, was eventually established. 

From that day. Lady Meadowes sanctioned the preliminaries 
of the sale by auction wliicli was to clear the premises for their 
new proprietor ; and with the exception of their personal belong- 
ings, and a small case of miniatures of no intrinsic value, all Avas 
speedily ticketed and destined to the hammer. It had been the 
earnest desire of both mother and daughter to escape from the 
scene of confusion before their sacred haunts were invaded. But 
this was impossible. The inclemency of the Aveather rendered 
perilous the immediate removal of the invalid ; and she had to 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


115 


cnduie tlie rough intrusion and coarse questioning of the 
auctioneer and his workmen, ere the doors closed upon her for ever. 

But why dwell upon the details of that mournful exodus ! — 
They went. Their place remembered them no longer. 

Not Hagar, driven forth into the wilderness, was more deso- 
late than they I — 


CHAPTER XV. 

Genteel poverty is too apt to be 'garlanded about with 
arabesques by descriptive writers: like the deceptious honey- 
suckles twined over a rustic porch. Even poor Mary Tremen- 
heere, far advanced in the thirties, and much addicted to weak 
poetry and weak tea, allowed herself to whine occasionally to 
Mrs. Burton about the “ humble cot ” of their banished friends, 
as “ the abode of frugality and content.” 

But Mrs. Burton knew better. Mrs. Burton had tasted of the 
bitter waters and found them unpalatable ; — and, aware that 
the “humble cot” consisted of t'wo floors in one of a row of 
comfortless lodging-houses, so small, that the smell of the kitchen 
and voices of its inmates were never absent from the drawing- 
room, she knew how greatly the long-pampered invalid would 
have to suffer, and how much poor Amy would feel in noting 
her mother’s loss of comfort. 

The time had ai-rived, ]^^rs. Burton thought, alas ! far sooner 
than she had expected, which justified her former disapproval of 
the mode of Amy’s bringing up. Too early, poor child, had she 
been summoned to meet mi.sfortune, face to face. The sight of 
that terrible aspect might perhaps have proved too much for her 
courage. 

Mrs. Burton believed too, and the prim maiden lady believed, 
that other miscliances besides pecuniary ones, had their share in 
rendering the health of Amy Meadowes at the moment of leav- 
ing Radensford nearly as precarious as that of her mother. 
They had witnesifed the commencement of her acquaintance 
with William Eustace ; they had noticed his attentions to her • 


IIG 


PIIO GUESS AND PREJUDICE. 


they had seen her intense anxiety at the commencement of his 
illness. But they also remembered the severity of countenanco 
assumed by Lady Harriet when they hazarded the smallest al- 
lusion to the subject : and neither of them was in the slightest 
degree aware of Mr. Eustace’s hurried visit to Meadowes Court, 
or its results. 

It was consequently only natural that, with the proneness of 
their sex for hearing the wings of invisible Cupids perpetually 
fluttering in the air, they should decide that Amy Meadowes’s 
fall from her high estate was grievously embittered by the pangs 
of a disappointed first love. 

Poor girl! — her troubles needed no such enhancement. It 
was enough to see tl*e darling mother she loved so dearly, ill- 
lodged, ill-fed, and ill-attended : to have had the sunshine of hec~ 
innocent life extinguished in a moment; to leave old neighbour 
Savile and the rest of her pensioners succourless in the midst of 
winter; — to find the hands of strangers laid upon objects she had 
been accustomed to hold sacred ; — and feel herself razed from an 
honourable line. 

While Mary Tremenheere was whispering at the Rectory her 
fears that dear Lady Harriet* and the Eustaces iniglit not prove 
the only family of distinction likely to disdain an alliance with 
the poverty-stricken daughter of an ex-governess, the tears of 
the object of her pity were falling in secret over her discovery, 
not that her mother was of humble birlh, but that her father’s 
living sister kept aloof from them, even in the day of their tribu- 
lation : that no cousin Hugh, or Marcus, or Olivia, took xdty on 
her fate. 

The beauty and novelty of the scenery to which they were 
thus disastrously transferred, had no charms for the mourners. 
Overpowered by her journey, and the harassing events by 
which it was jn*eceded. Lady Meadowes was again confined to 
the sofa ; nor would her daughter quit her side, save for her 
Sab’oath devotions. In the little glaring drawing-room, from 
which it was equally impossible to exclude the sun and wind 
that rendered its tawdry ornaments so faded, and brought down 
such gusts of smoke from its narrow chimney; they were 

Cabm’d, cribb’d, confin’d, 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


117 


as in a lantern. For some days after their instalment, Amy, 
•with the sanguine promptings of her age, kept listening for ar- 
rivals. She felt sure that one or other of the kind friends 
who had taken so much thought for them, would folloAV them to 
see how they fared under their trials. Clifton was scarcely 
thirty miles from Radensford. They could come and return in 
a day. Alas 1 poor girl, she took not into account the amount 
of time already sacrificed by these good people in their behalf ; 
that each and all had other duties to attend to. The bounds of 
human virtue have their limit. Even the Good Samaritan took 
out only two pence for the benefit of the wounded wayfiirer ; and 
others besides Lady Harriet Warneford were perhaps of opinion 
that Sir Mark’s widow and daughter must learn to shift for 
themselves. 

Amy continued, however, to rush to the window whenever 
some vehicle stopped in the vicinity of their house ; hoping to 
see the benevolent countenance of Mr. Henderson, the kindly 
smile of his daughter, or the knitted brow^s of Dr. Burnaby. 
Even the deaf old Admiral and his neice would have been wel- 
come. But the carriages brought only strangers to visit the 
strangers by whom they were surrounded. Hot one familiar 
face — not one kindly word — not one glance of comfort for Amy 
Meadowes. 

The worst w-as that the only civilities offered her were far 
more irksome than this enforced solitude. The person by whom 
their lodgings were kept — the “ lady,” as she carefully styled 
herself — having no other occupation for her time andjthouglits 
but the victims under her charge, was moved to bestow an un- 
usual share of both upon her new inmates. They had been 
especially recommended to her by Dr. Burnaby — from whom 
she had often before received consignments of invalid patients. 
But never a Baronet’s widow — never a girl so lovely as “ sAveet 
Miss Meadowes.” Mrs. Darby felt that she had a right to affect 
extraordinary interest in their welfare ; and bestow her longest 
dictionary words and profoundest curtseys upon them, while 
daily inquiring what it would please her ladyship to take for 
dinner — because the appetite of an invalid like her ladyship 
ought to be consulted— and she could easy get a spring chicken 


I 

118 PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 

for lier ladyship, or a little grass, if her lad3'ship would onl}’^ con- 
descend to say the word. 

To such suggestions, when Amy was alone, Mrs. Darby by 
degrees ventured to add a few words of advice on the subject of 
domestic economy and the etiquettes of life: interrupting her 
officious counsels with cant and palaver only the more offen- 
sive to pious ears for being clothed in the language of Scripture ; 
— like robes stolen from a sacristy to be degraded into mas- 
querade costumes. 

“ Poor dear ! one liardly knows which is the greater child, 
tlie mother or the daugliter,” observed Mrs. Darby, shaking her 
long streamers of forlorn ringlets as she Avhispered her confi- 
dences to her parlour lodger, Mr. Alaric Amphlett — (“a hinde- 
pendent gentleman” she described liiin to Amy, “which lives 
on his means, and has resided under my humble roof these seven 
year come Michaelmas).” “ One wishes to do one’s dooty, and 
something more than one’s dooty, Mr. Halaric, to such poor for- 
lorn creaturs. The widow of Sir Mark Meadowes, of Meadowes 
Court, Sir; one of the first families in Gloucestershire; but left 
verj’ bad off Pm afeard ; — no male attendant — nothing but one 
superannuated groping old maid for both — as cross and short, if 
I ask her a question, as if she didn’t understand who she was 
a speaking to.” 

After which explanations, interlarded with a few well-worn 
texts which she was accustomed to mince up for her lodgers 
with their stale bread and rancid mutton, she was requested by 
her sympathising first-floor to convey to the “ poor forlorn crea- 
turs ” a copy of the Somersetshire Weekly Herald — and the last 
Punch., “ with Mr. Alaric Amphlett’s best respects, and hopes 
that her ladyship felt herself the better for the salubrious climate 
of her new abode.” 

Not a little was Mrs. Darby offended when, on gliding more 
theatrically than usual on the morrow into Amy’s chamber, and 
delivering her credentials with her accustomed attention to stage- 
effect, Miss Meadowes received the overtures of her gallant 
fellow- lodger with somewhat more than indifference. She 
begged Mrs. Darby would return the papers. Her mother did 
not care for such things. She had herself no time for reading. 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


119 


When, by dint of perpetually throwing himself in her way in 
the narrow entry, on her way to church, Mr. A. A. eventually 
contrived to make himself known by sight, Amy’s imlitference to 
his overtures rijjened into disgust. The self-conceited vulgarity 
of the ‘‘'independent gentleman ” (a superannuated Bristol clerk, 
the Lovelace of the small tea-parties of Clifton), rendered it 
]tlea-anter to proceed in the rain when overtaken by a shower, 
than accept the umbrella with which' he had been officiously 
fvdlowing her for the chance of a self-introduction. 

“ I know it does not become me to be proud. I know I ought 
to be thankful for any one’s civilities. But I have not patience 
with this forward man. How am I to make Mrs. Darby under- 
stand that she is only to make her appearance when rung for ; 
and that I do not -wish to hear again the name of Mr. Alaric 
Amphlett? — ” 

She did contrive to make both fficts clearly understood. But 
in doing so, when Mrs. Darby presented herself as the bearer of 
a“bittiful boquet, which Mr. Halaric ’oped would be hacceptable 
to her ladies,” she also contrived to make an enem}’. Though 
Miss Meadowes announced her own and her mother’s wishes for 
the strictest privacy, in the gentlest terms, with all her usual 
lady-like self-possession, Mrs. Darby flounced out of the room, 
scarcely able to bridle her indignation. 

“They shan’t be troubled much more with my hassiduties,” 
she observed, in reporting to her parlour-floor the ill-success of 
her mis.-ion. “ Folks which content themselves all the month 
round with harrow-root -and boiled mutton, needn’t give them- 
selves quite the hairs of Ilempress Queens.” 

It was precisely while occupied in giving vent to her resent- 
ments, in A. A.’s private apartment, that she overheard her Kora 
in dimity anything but wliite^ informing an applicant for an in- 
terview with Lady Meadowes, that her ladyship was a great 
invalid, and saw no company. 

“ Miss Meadowes, then ; — he particularly wished to see Miss 
Meadowes.” 

“ The young lady never left her mamma.” 

The visitor gave utterance to several exclamations of vexation 
and disappointment. “ It was particularly provoking. He had 


120 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


come from a great distance to see tliem.” To all wliich, ITrs. 
Darby listened through the half-open door of Mr. Halaric’s par- 
lour ; delighted to believe that Miss Meadowes’s haughty prohi- 
bition would prove the means of depriving her of the sight of 
some valued friend. 

A peep at the visitor seemed to render this still more probable. 
For though bronzed in face, and though his mourning-suit ■was 
of a cut very different from the Bath fashions sported by the 
independent gentleman, he was strikingly handsome in face, and 
I)ossessed a fine manly military-looking figure. 

“ Couldn’t you send up your name, Sir?” suggested the ser- 
vant, on whom his appearance seemed to produce as favourable 
an impression as on her mistress. 

The proposal probably staggered the intruder; for he neither 
answered it, nor retreated from the door. Probably because he 
knew that 7iis name was the last in the world likely to be ac- 
ceptable to those he was desirous to conciliate. But the 
suggestion had given a new direction to his plans. Taking out 
his pocket-book, he wrote a line or two on a leaf hastily torn 
from it ; and requested that it might be immediately taken to 
Miss Meadowes. 

What would the lady in the forlorn ringlets, ensconced behind 
the parlour door, or the individual in the plaid jacket who stood 
biting his nails in her rear, have given for a glimpse of the mys- 
terious missive ! — ^It was not for them to surmise that the 
nameless individual had announced himself as waiting upon Lady 
Meadowes on the part of Messrs. Preston of Cardington ; and 
when the servant returned, bidding him “ walk up,” they 
naturally attributed the audience so readily granted by a young 
lady requiring the “ strictest privacy,” to the mustachios that 
graced his lip, and the assurance of his deportment. 

Amy, meanwhile, who, after her dismissal of the importunate 
Mrs. Darby, had sat down to occupy herself at her drawing- 
table, hoping to recover her composure before her mother, who 
was enjoying her afternoon nap, should wake and summon lier, 
was little prepared for the appearance of the supposed clerk of 
Messrs. Preston and Son. Having risen at his entrance and ad- 
vanced a few steps to meet him, instead of offering him a seat, 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


121 


she paused in an embarrassed manner, colouring deeply, as she 
surveyed the handsome stranger. 

“I fear there has been some mistake,” she began — scarcely 
knowing how to express her regret at having sanctioned the visit. 

“ None — if I have the honour of addressing Miss Meaclowes,” 
replied tlie frank stranger ; in a voic^ which still further 
deepened the flush on Amy’s cheek. 

You have probably some message for my mother from Yiw 
Preston,” said she. ‘‘I regret to say that mamma is as yet un- 
equal to business.” 

The only business I have to transact with Lady Meadowes,” 
he rejoined, courteously placing for poor Amy the chair she 
seemed so loth to offer to himself, “is to express those heartfelt 
apologies for neglect and estrangement, which would not have 
been so long delayed, but that the last half-dozen years of my life 
have been spent in India. I have only very lately become aware 
of my unintentional failure in duty to so near a relative.” 

“My cousin — yes, my cousin, Mark Davenport!” exclaimed 
Miss Meadowes, starting forward with extended hands and a 
countenance brightene'd with joy. “ I guessed it — I was sure of 
it tlie moment you spoke. Your voice and countenance are both 
so like — so very like ” — her voice faltered. She could not con- 
clude her sentence. But there was no need to name her “ poor 
father.” 

“ I have been told so before, Amy. I have been told that I 
was quite a Meadowes ; and I have a fond mother who does not, . 
I suspect, like me the less for the resemblance,” said he, cordially 
pressing her hands, as he stood contemplating his charming new- 
found relative; who, trembling in every limb Avith surprise and 
emotion, was only too glad to accept the chair placed for her, 
and to find Marcus, the often dreamed of Marcus — seated by her 
side. 

“ I have thought of you so much,” said she, with frank unre- 
serve. “ Alone as I am in the Avorld, cousin, it seemed so hard 
to have such near relations without a hope of ever meeting. 
IIoAV happy, how very happy, my mother will be!” 

“ Are you sure of that, Amy ? Lady lileadowes has much to 
resent!” 


6 


122 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


“ She never resents. My mother is an angel. She may per- 
haps grieve that yon never took courage to come and see us at 
Meadowes Court, during the lifetime of my fatlier. Now, yonr 
visit will seem like a concession made to peoi)le fallen in the 
world : — not a spontaneous impulse of affection.” 

Captain Davenport/elt perjtiaps a little goilty : conscious tliat 
a spontaneous impulse of affection for his aunt or cousin was by 
no means the^^Hmwm mol) lie of his visit. 

“It will be more generous of you, Amy,” said he, “ to accept 
without retrospect, the contrition of one who has offended. It 
is the privilege of the Almighty to visit the sins of the fathers 
upon the children. At Ilford Castle, I promise you, the children 
— even when men — are allowed no will of their own. Will you 
believe that, for tAventy years of my life, I Avas ignorant that my 
mother liad a brother?” 

“ I believe it readily — ^because I Avas brought up in the same 
error. Never in their lives did my father and mother mention 
before me the name of Davenport.” 

“Then how came you so familiar AAUth that of your cousin 
Mark ?” he inquired, with a smile. “ You Avelcomed me as if I 
had been long looked for, come at last !” 

“ Long wished for — not expected,” Avas her honest reply. “ I 
had heard of you from one of our neighbours at MeadoAves 
Court.” 

“Lady Harriet Warneford — the sister of a friend of my 
mother — ” 

“No, our Hector’s daughter— the AvidoAV of one of your 
friends — ” 

“ Mrs. Burton? You knoAv Hachel Burton?” said he — and an 
expression of reserve suddenly overclouded Ids face. He would 
have been better pleased, could he have surmised hoAv very little 
concerning him tb.e “Avidow-of his friend” had ever alloAved 
herself to communicate to his young cousin. 

“ She once shoAA^ed me some of your beautitul sketches, con- 
tinued Amy, not noticing his change of countenance; “and I 
felt quite proud of you. And then, your bearing my fathers 
name made you seem, almost more than a cousin — more like a 
brother. It appears absurd, noAV that Ave have met at last, and 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


123 


you are sitting here by my side, how often and often I have 
wished some accident might bring us together I” . 

Mark Davenport did not seem to think it at all absurd. iTo- 
thiug could be more natural. But he was inexpressibly charmed 
by the kindliness and candour of his uncle’s child. He could 
trace in her, as she discerned in him, marked evidence of kindred 
blood. Her delicate features resembled those of his sister Olivia. 
Her winning manner brought Lady Davenport before his eyes. 

“And how am I to prepare dear mamma for all this?” said 
Amy, too much disturbed by the flurry of her own thoughts and 
feelings, to perceive how earnestly he was examining her — per- 
haps with the hope of discerning some trait of Hargoodism 
among the many characteristics of the house of Meadowes. 
“ What am I to say to her ? That you are come with a mes- 
sage of kindness from Lord and Lady Davenport ?” 

“No, Amy — you must not say that. My flither is neitlier 
milder nor wiser in his old age than ho was in his youth ; and 
there are some points on wliich I never consult him. My life 
would otherwise be a perpetual skirmish. But you may tell her, 
Amy, and you cannot tell it her too kindly,” he continued, again 
taking his cousin affectionately by the hand — “ that, her once 
cherished Gertrude is breaking her heart that her brother should 
have gone down to the grave unreconciled. Go and tell her 
that, dear child. Prepare her to be lenient towards the son of 
her old friend. Prepare her to accept such atonement as I have 
to offer. Prepare her to look kindly on my mother’s son.” 

Amy hesitated. She dreaded the agitation to which such an 
explanation would expose her enfeebled mother. If it were but 
over! If all were said, and settled, and Lady Meadowes would 
consent to take to her hearf this out-spoken and warm-hearted 
nepliew ! 

“ Have you brought no letter — no express message fi om Lady 
Daven port?” she inquired, endeavouring to gain courage from delay. 

“No my dear cousin. We trust to the voice of ntiture to 
plead for us.” 

“It will require some time, at all events, to prepare my 
mother’s feelings,” resumed Amy. “ To-day, probably, she will 
not make up her mind to an interview.” 


124 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


“She must — she must! To-morrow I shall be gone. My 
time is limited.” 

“You surely cannot leave us so very soon!” she exclaimed, 
startled by this announcement. 

“ It would be too hard to lose you, Cousin Mark, before our 
acquaintance is half begun !” 

“ It will depend on yourself, dear Amy, to see as much as you 
please of me, for the remainder of our days.” And having 
drawn to his lips the hand he was holding, he was proceeding to 
imprint upon it as warm a kiss as if it had been that of Mary 
Hargood, when a disagreeable voice apprised them that the head 
of the inquisitive Mrs. Darby was intruded into the room. 

“ If you please, Miss Meadowes, mem, her ladyship’s rung her 
bell twice, mem,” said the lady of the forlorn ringlets — “ and 
nobody seems to attend to it. If you wish, mem, I have no 
objection to step up to her ladyship and inform her you are ' 
particularly engaged.” 


CHAPTER XVI. 

Tnouan the spring was now breaking, the orderly domicile 
of Hargood was, if possible, still more gloomy than in those 
short November days when Mary was vainly watching for a ray 
of real daylight to shine upon her unfinished Murillo. 

Never in the darkest moments of their unjoyous life had she 
seen her father so taciturn as during the month which followed 
his outbreak of ire against Captair\^Davenport. She knew him 
too Avell to recur to the subject. She was aware that no inter- 
ces^ion of liers would prevail upon him to withdraw his inter- 
diction of the ofiender’s further visits, or induce him to answer 
poor Marcus’s letters of apology. Inflexible as Jove the Inscru- 
table, tlie man who had spent thirty years of his life sitting in 
critical judgement upon dynasties and governments, kings, lords, 
and commons — extinguishing poets by a sneer, mangling heroes 
by a home-thrust, torturing artists, exasperating comedians, and 
putting poets to the edge of the penknife — was not likely 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


125 


to abdicate bis opinion at the intercessions of an inexperienced 
girl. The systematic manufacture of leading articles has a mar- 
vellous effect on the human mind ; and since the frog in the 
fable, self-inflated into emulation of the ox, nothing perhaps has 
more nearly approached the arrogance of Oriental autocracy, than 
the “ we ” of a popular editor. Hargood, under his private sense 
of provocation and injury, went on slashing books, and carving 
ministerial measures into mince-meat. But he was none the 
milder in his intercourse v’ith his unoffending daughter. 

Nevertheless, under all this seeming rigour, tender feelings 
Avere throbbing in his heart. His sister’s name was once more 
ringing in his ears. She from whom he had parted a girl, was 
now, it appeared, a Avidow — a Avidow with an only daughter : 
and such a position Avas only the more sacred in his eyes from 
the afflictions Avith Avhicli his family experience had brought 
him acquainted. 

He Avould have giv^en Avorlds to obtain some information about 
her, could he have done so Avithout compromisin^by inquiry, 
his surly dignity. Right well he knew hoAV long and diligently 
she had endeavoured to trace him out ; and what trouble, for 
many years, it had cost him to evade her officious beneficence. 
But this obduracy came back to him, noAV, like a bitter reproach. 
He sometimes threw aside his pen, in the midst of a caustic ar- 
ticle likely to exterminate some thin-skinned, ill-fated author, to 
rest his broAV upon his hand, and live over again those happy 
days at Henstead Parsonage, when Mary Avas his idol : and her 
gentle nature interposed like a medium of peace between his 
victims and the retributive justice of a severe editor. For like 
most tyrants, he had been a rebel in his youth : just as now, 
though one of the most eloquent champions of universal free- 
dom, he held in more than iron durance his children and 
household. 

Though he AAmuld have rebuked her presumption, had his 
daughter taken courage to question him concerning the intelli- 
gence communicated in lier presence by Captain Davenport, he 
almost resented her seeming insouciance on the subject. Mary 
did not appear interested so much as to know Avhat had become 
of her brother artist ! — 


126 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


Hargood was aware tliat Captain Davenport had left town. 
"Was it to roturn to India? AVere they never to meet again? 
The notion troubled liirn sorely : and to the great surpilse of 
Ilainiltoii Drewe he found himself called upon one morning by 
one for whose visits he had vainly canvassed. 

But Drewe knew notliing more than that the pink cockatoo 
was incessantly screeching after its master; and that Davenport’s 
servant had returned from Ilford Castle, stating that “ the Cap- 
tain was gone on a tower.” For this scanty intelligence, Ilai-- 
good had to pay the penalty of listening to half-a-dozen wii-y 
lyrics, which the poet modestly hinted he should not be sorry to 
see inserted in the leading journal of which his visitor was the 
hierophant. 

“ The servant did not mention whether Captain Davenport 
was gone into Gloucestershire ?” was all the answer he vouch- 
safed to this modest suggestion. 

' As if the lyrist, whose ears were ringing with the rhythm 
of his own strophes, could have certified just then whether 
Gloucestershire lay north or south of the Trent! Hargood per- 
ceived, at last, that the poet’s thoughts, like his eye, were “in a 
fine frenzy rolling and quietly took his hat and returned 
home. 

Ilis two boys had arrived at home for the holidays; holidays 
which consisted in being kept harder at work and far more 
tongue-tied, than in their Hammersmith playground; and had 
found their home if possible more joyless, and Mary still more 
silent, than on any preceding Christmas. It was almost a release 
when they stepped into the omnibus which conveyed them from 
that well-regulated liome, where aifection and leisure were as 
conscientiously economised as money or money’s worth. For 
them, poor lads, no pleasant pantomime — no visits to panoramas, 
or public shoAvs: albeit tickets of free-admission were lying dusty 
and uncared foj* in the card-rack of their hither; Avho regarded 
such temptations as a farmer regards the gaudy poppies and dar- 
nel among his corn. 

Triere were others, however, besides the young Hargoods who, 
at the close of that Christmas vacation, returned to school far 
more saddened than cheered by the results of tlieir holidays. A 


PROGHESS AND PREJUDICE. 


127 - 


sadder if not a wiser man, was the William Eustace v/lio returned 
to his chambers in the Albany, on the self-same day that con- 
veyed Mark Davenport to Clifton, than the fastidious young 
gentleman who had made the Manor House of Radensford his 
city of refuge during tlje preceding season of- partridge shoot- 

The excitement of mind under which he had hurried from 
^leadowes Court, after his humiliating interview with Amy, had 
scarcely yet subsided ; for his mortification was in proportion to 
his self-conceit. For her sake he had embroiled himself with 
all his nearest relatives ; and to return to the home on w^hose 
hearth he had plaj^ed the Ajax, w'as impossible. And though he 
had made a momentary appearance at the Manor House, not to 
confide to Lady Harriet the indifference of the woman he loved, 
but to accuse the Semiramis of Radensford of being, by mis- 
representation and plotting, the cause of his rejection, he had 
quitted the house as impetuously and resentfully as ho sought it: 
scurrying oft’ like a whirlwind, towards London — Paris — 
Vienna — Constantinople — he did not much care wdiere! so that 
he might never again set eyes on any member of that degraded 
and stultified class of the community, the Baronetage of the 
United Kingdom — or old granges with moats effusing miasma, 
and inmates encrusted with Prejudice. 

He found himself attacking a basin of mulligatawney soup in 
the Ship Hotel, Dover, before he half recovered his breath or 
self-command. And since for Paris his passport was taken out, 
and to Paris his baggage was addressed, onward went the peni- 
tent l)lase ; in a miserable state of mind, between frost and 
thaw" ; much as Don Juan may have felt, w’hen the icy grasp of 
liie Commendatore w"as sending its first chill through his mar- 
row. After a few" weeks spent inwvandering about without 
motive or purpose, and in a most misanthropical state of mind, 
William Eustace returned to London, and took his seat in the 
House at the commencement of the Session, in a mood as 
changed as if some mesmeric operation had transformed his 
nature. Like the relief w"e experience in throwing oft’ an eider- 
dow"n coverlet after a nightmare, as though a mountain w"ere 
removed from one’s breast, he felt unaccountably emancipated. 


128 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


As yet, he had accomplished nothing, hut the resolution to look 
the world steadily in the face. But such resolutions lay the first 
stone of tl)e greatness that won the battle of Waterloo, or estab- 
lished steam locomotion. 

Tiie great point was to turn as deaf ear as Princess Parizude 
in the story, to the idle voices scouting his progress. 

“ What a prig Billy Eustace is becoming,” was soon a common 
cry at his club. “He has returned from Paris ‘ trainant Vaile 
ct trainant le 'pied^ like a disabled carrier pigeon.” 

“ The worst result of these wondrous wise times !” sneered 
one of his playfellows. 

“ And he looks as wise, all the time,” added Lord Curt do 
Cruxley, “ as a magpie that has stolen a marro'vv-bone, wdiich it 
does not know how to pick.” 

**He***5f:*** 

“What possible advantage can you foresee, Captain Davenport, 
ill our removal to London ?” expostulated Lady Meadowes, as 
tlie family at Clifton sat united round a sociable tea-table, the 
evening after Marcus’s arrival at Clifton ; already, after a thou- 
sand grievous explanations, animated by a spirit as friendly as 
though their intimacy were of half a century’s duration. 

“A thousand! — ten thousand !” was his earnest reply. “In 
the first xfiace, to people of small means, London is the clieapest 
place in the world. In the next, since you desire to throw off 
at once the habits of your days of opulence, so complete a change 
will greatly facilitate the task. Above all, this dear little cousin 
of mine will lead a far more cheerful life.” 

“Mark is right, dear mother,” said Amy, having at once 
adopted that familiar name, which Lady Meadowes, haunted by 
painful reminiscences, found it impossible to pronounce. “I 
have been thinking over the Welsh cottage scheme, to which I 
had been looking forward for next spring. But it would involve 
a thousand evils. You cannot live at a distance from medical 
advice. You cannot stir out on foot.” 

“And do you imagine, darling, that London would make me 
stronger for the attempt ?” said Lady Meadowes, smiling at her 
enthusiasm. 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


129 


“You might obtain carriage exercise at an easier rate,” said 
Captain Davenport. 

“ Above all,” pleaded Amy, “ we should not be watched and 
overlooked as we are here. In this small place, minnows are 
Tritons. In the great throng of London, we should be un- 
noticed.” 

“ Remember, darling child,” said Lady Meadowes, “ that in 
fixing ourselves on leaving this place, we must make no mistake. 
We cannot afford to be whimsical or restless. It would be cri- 
minal to encroach on the little fund created by the sale at Mea- 
dowes Court to gratify our roving fancies; and, moreover, we 
know so little of the ways of the great Avorld, that surely we are 
safer in the country.” 

“ You set little value on my zeal and prowess as a champion, 
my dear aunt,” said Captain Davenport, encouraged in his plead- 
ing by the earnest looks of Amy. “ Did you not promise me this 
morning to accept my poor services as a friend — a nephew — a 
son ?” 

“ Most thankfully. But you will return to your regiment — ” 

“ Never! I have done with soldiering.” 

“ At all events, you have engrossing occupations and engage- 
ments, which would ofien leave us lonely.” 

“Why lonely?” rejoined Captain Davenport. “You cannot 
mean to remain permanently estranged from society ? For some 
time to come,” he added, as he saw her cast a saddened glance 
on her weeds, “ you will naturally live in seclusion. But Amy 
must not, at eighteen, renounce a world she has never seen.” 

“ She must — she must,” interrupted his cousin. “ Poor as wo 
are, it will be an act of self-respect to avoid collision with people 
richer and greater than ourselves. Why may not a quiet home, 
with all its. duties, be enjoyed in London as elsewhere ?” 

“ We will leave that question to take care of itself hereafter,” 
said Captain Davenport, glancing at the lovely Face as yet so com- 
pletely unconscious of its* attractions — a dowry how much* richer 
than the fund created by the sale of his uncle’s pictures and 
plate ! But he fondly fiincied that the occasion was a good one 
for alluding to a subject which, at present, he had not ventured 
to approach — a reconciliation betAveen Lady Meadowes and her 

6 ^ 


132 


PKOCKESS AND PREJUDICE. 


established tliau many a counting-house clerk, and her younger 
b-anished from the family circle by tlie prison- discipline of New 
street, was fain to content herself with rendering Olivia’s school- 
room and chamber as trim and cheerful and simply-elegant, as 
became their pretty occupant. 

Olivia, though shy and timid in her father’s presence, expanded 
into another being when alone with her mother, who looked for- 
ward with pain and grief to the discovery awaiting her of her 
father’s coarseness of mind, and hardness of heart : and endea- 
vored to get her out of the room whenever the tact, created by 
long experience, forewarned her that a domestic storm was at 
liand. 

One dn}^ shortly after their arrival in town, Hugh was in tlie 
drawing-room with liis mother and sister, when a lieavy creaking 
step to which even the massive stone staircase responded as if in 
awe, announced tliat tlie head of the family had issued from his 
sc.nctum below, to join the family conclave. 

“ Can either of you inform me,” he inquired, addressing his 
wife and son, after assuming his most imperial and tenant atti- 
tude on the hearth-rug, “What has become of Captain Daven- 
port? When he quitted Ilfbrd, he told me, with his usual *dis- 
resjiectful levity, that we should meet in town — nay, that ho 
should probably be in London before me.” 

“ And is he not arrived?” inquired Lady Davenport, anxiously. 

“Neither arrived nor expected, that I can hear of. Having 
business of importance to talk over with him, I wrote to desire 
he would wait on me at dinner to-day. No ansAver. Accus- 
tomed to his habitual disregard of the decencies of life, I thought 
it better to send and inquire whether he chose to give me the 
honor of his company. John has just returned.” 

“Why not mention the subject to me, my dear father,” inter- 
l)osed Hugh, “ I could at least have told you he wms not in towji.” 

“Perhaps, then,” grunted Lord Davenport, “You can relieve 
my uncertainty by favoring me with his address?” 

“ I wish I could. But on that point I must plead ignorance. 
iMark informed me that he promised himself the relaxation of 
a little tour in the South of England, before ho settled in town 
for the season.” 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


'133 


“ Eelaxation I” cried Lord Davenport, indignantly shrugging 
his shoulders. “ A pretty person to need relaxation, Avhose whole 
life is a system of tlie most contemptible lounging.” 

“ lie earned his leisure, however, father, by some years of pro- 
fessional exertion.” 

“ Professional fiddlestick ! Carried by sepoys in a palanquin, 
smoking a hookali. I heard him own it, one evening at Ilford, 
to my neighbor. Sir Gardner Dalmaine.” 

“As a joke, my dear Lord Davenport,” remonstrated his wife. 
“ Mark is, I own, a little too fond of hoaxing our country neigh- 
bor.” 

“At all events, he has had time to recover from what Hugh 
is good enougli to call liis professional exertions; and having 
partaken tlirougliout the holidays of the cheer and cheerfulness 
of our fireside, there is no occasion surely for his wasting money 
in skulking about the country, like Dr. Syntax in search of the 
Picturesque, without so much as acquainting liis servant where 
his letters are to be addressed.” 

“ liis servant accompanied him when he left Ilford,” observed 
Lady Davenport in a deprecatory tone. 

“ When he left Ilford. But he soon shook him off. And I 
•know nothing more suspicious tiian when a man gets rid for a 
time of a favourite servant, on whose attendance he is at otiier 
moments effeminately dependent.” 

Lady Davenport whispered to Olivia, who was beginning to 
look nervous and alarmed at the increasing initability of lier 
father’s manner, that slie ought to run over lier solfege fi)r half 
an hour in tlie school-room, preparatory to her lesson from Sig- 
nor Garcia. But the angry man did not wait for the door to 
close upon his daughter before he renewed his vituperation. 

“ It is scarcely respectable,” said he, “for a* man’s whereabout 
to be so great a mystery, that his own father knows not where 
to address a letter to him. And I shall be placed under the 
necessity of making this disgraceful admission to my friend Lord 
Lothbury.” 

“ I have not the least doubt that Mark Avill be here in a few 
days,” said Hugh. “ London is filling — the exhibitions are open- 
ing-” 


132 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


cstablislied tliaii many a counting-house clerk, and her yonnger 
b-anisbed from the family circle by tlje prison- discipline of New 
street, was fain to content lierself with rendering Olivia’s school- 
room and chamber as trim and cheerful and simply-elegant, as 
became their pretty occupant. 

Olivia, though shy and timid in her father’s presence, expanded 
’ into another being when alone with her mother, who looked for- 
v.ard with pain and grief to the discovery awaitiiig her of her 
father’s coarseness of mind, and hardness of heart : and endea- 
vored to get her out of the room whenever the tact, created by 
long experience, forewarned her that a domestic storm was at 
hand. 

One day, shortly after their arrival in town, Hugh was in the 
drawdng-room with his mother and sister, when a heavy creaking 
stop to which even the massive stone staircase responded as if in 
a^ve, announced tliat tlie head of the family had issued from his 
sc.nctum below, to join the family conclave. 

“ Can either of you inform me,” he inquired, addressing his 
wife and son, after assuming his most imperial and tonant atti- 
tude on the hearth-rug, “What has become of Captain Daven- 
port? When he quitted Ilford, he told me, Avith Ids usual dis- 
respectful levity, that Ave should meet in tOAvn — nay, that lie 
should probably be in London before me.” 

“ And is lie not arrived?” inquired Lad}^ BaA^enport, anxiously. 

“ Neither arrived nor expected, that I can hear of. Having 
business of importance to talk over with him, I Avrote to desire 
he would Avait on me at dinner to-day. No ansAver. Accus- 
tomed to his habitual disregard of the decencies of life, I thought 
it better to send and inquire Avhether lie chose to give me the 
honor of his company. John has just returned.” 

“Why not mention the subject to me, my dear father,” inter- 
jiosed Hugh, “ I could at least have told you he was not in toAvn.” 

“ Perhaps, then,” grunted Lord Davenport, “ You can relieve 
my uncertainty by favoring me Avith his address ?” 

“ I wish I could. But on that point I must plead ignorance, 
klark informed me that he promised himself the relaxation of 
a little tour in the South of England, before he settled in town 
for the season.” 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


133 


“Eelaxation!” cried Lord Davenport, indignantly shrugging 
his shoulders. “ A ])retty person to need relaxation, whose whole 
life is a system of the most contemptible lounging.” 

“ He earned his leisure, however, father, by some years of pro- 
fessional exertion.” 

“ Professional fiddlestick ! Carried by sepoys in a palanquin, 
smoking a hookah. I heard fiim own it, one evening at Ilford, 
to my neighbor. Sir Gardner Dalmaine.” 

“ As a joke, my dear Lord Davenport,” remonstrated his wife. 
“ Mark is, I own, a little too fond of hoaxing our country neigh- 
bor.” 

“At all events, he has had time to recover from what Hugh 
is good enough to call Ins professional exertions ; and having 
})artaken throughout the holidays of the clieer and cheerfulness 
of our fireside, there is no occasion surely for his wasting money 
in skulking about the country, like Dr. Syntax in search of the 
Picturesque, without so much as acquainting liis servant where 
his letters are to be addressed.” . 

“ His servant accompanied him when he left Ilford,” observed 
Lady Davenport in a deprecatory tone. 

“ When he left Ilford. But he soon shook him off. And I 
•know nothing more suspicious than Avhen a man gets rid for a 
time of a favourite servant, on whose attendance he is at other 
moments efteininately dependent.” 

Lady Davenport whispered to Olivia, who was beginning to 
look nervous and alarmed at the increasing irritability of her 
father’s manner, that she ought to run over her solfege for half 
an hour in the school-room, preparatory to her lesson from Sig- 
nor Garcia. But the angry man did not wait for the door to 
close upon his daughter before he renewed his vituperation. 

“ It is scarcely respectable,” said he, “for a* man’s whereabout 
to be so great a mystery, that his own father knows not where 
to address a letter to him. And I shall be placed under the 
necessity of making this disgraceful admission to my friend Lord 
Lothbury.” 

“ I have not the least doubt that Mark Avill be here in a few 
days,” said Hugh. “ London is filling — the exhibitions are open- 
ing—” 


134 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


“ In a feAV Sir !” reiterated Lord Davenport, in a louder 
key; “London tilling! the exhibitions opening! A pretty 
plea for me to adduce to my Lord Lothhury, Do you suppose 
his Excellency Avill Avait, — fiu* a Aveek perhaps, to learn Avhethcr 
Captain Davenport is graciously pleased to accept the offer he 
has made me to appoint him his aide-de-camp V 
- “Aide-de-camp to the Lord Lieutenant?” repeated Lady 
Davenport — astonished that anything like preferment should 
he tendered to poor Mark through the medium of his father. 

“ I am persuaded my brother Avoukl not accept tlie appoint- 
ment,” said Hugli, almost equally surprised. “Indeed I think 
you must admit, my lord, that it is a place for which he is pecu- 
liarly unfitted, by his independent habits and hatred of every- 
thing like courtly formality.” 

“ And Avhat business. Sir, has he to hate it, or to pretend to 
independent habits? "Who, pray, is to afford him theoneans of 
maintaining them ? Captain Davenport is ahvays complaining 
of the narroAvness of his fortune. An opportunity is atforded 
him of doubling his income. Let me see him refuse it. I say, 
only let me see him refuse it !” 

Lady Dav'-enport and her son interchanged a hurried glance ; 
as if to interrogate each other as to the prudence of placing his* 
lordship at once in possession of Marcus’s intentions. The can- 
dour of Hugh Davenport’s nature prevailed. He could not be a 
party to even an innocent concealment. 

“ I fear, my lord, it is noAv too late,” said he. “ Lord Loth- 
bury’s kind intention can no longer be of service to my brother. 

I have reason to tliink he has already sent in liis papers to the 
Horse-Guards, Avith the intention of selling out.” 

“ Without apprising me roared Lord Davenport. “ A son 
of mine has actually committed me by an important communi- 
cation to the Horse-Guards, concerning which the Commander- 
in-Chief mtiy at any moment accost me, in the House or else- 
Avhere, and find me utterly ignorant ! Impossible, Sir, impossi- 
ble!” 

“I understood that he did consult you, so long ago as last 
spring,” expostulated Lady Davenport : “ but found you so vio- 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


135 


lently opposed to his views, that ho dared not again broach tho 
subject.” 

“My opposition to his project, then, you consider a justifica- 
tion of his rushing headlong to its execution ?” 

“ Not a justification, — a motive. He was was afraid to dis- 
please you by communicating his plans.” 

“ Jlien let him pause before he announces that they are carried 
out!” cried Lord Davenport, livid with anger. “For by the 
living God, if Mark Davenport renounces an honourable profes- 
sion to become a mean, snivelling, hireling mechanic of a limner, 
never shall he enter my doors again — no, never. Nor will I har- 
bour even his brother or sister, if they keep up the smallest 
intercourse with him under circumstances so derogatory. Tliis 
I will thank you, Mr. Davenport, not only to bear in mind, but 
to communicate to your brother, in its full extent, when he skulks 
out of his hiding-place, and makes his appearance among gentle- 
men.” 

The loud clap of the door slammed behind himself by his lord- 
ship on quitting the room after this outburst, scarcely sufficed to 
startle his wife out of her stupefaction. She knew that her son 
would persist in his intentions; that he had already taken 
measures past recalling. And what would be the result to them 
all ? Family disunion — family disgrace I the affection Avhich 
united in so strict a bond of mutual reliance herself and her three 
children, seemed on the eve of dissolution. 

“For mercy’s sake, dear Hugh, hurry off to your brother’s 
lodgings,” she faltered, the moment she recovered her pow'er of 
utterance, “ and if he be not yet arrived, leave a line for him, 
explaining all this, and entreating him not to appear in this house 
till you have had a personal interview. Marcus mmt not meet 
his father in Lord Davenport’s present state of excitement.” 

Almost before the charge was given, he was gone. And not 
till then, and she found herself alone, did poor Lady Davenport 
give free course to her maternal anguish. She resolved to 
address a few words of admonition to her rebellious son. But 
before her pen was dipped in the ink, the door opened hastily^, 
and he was by her side. 

“ ify dearest, dearest Mark — how lucky that you are come !” 


136 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


cried she. “ When did you arrive ? Have you — hate you — seen 
your lather ?” 

“Seen him? Yes! Though, thank Heaven, he did not see 
nne. I perceived him at a distance just now, near the Horse 
Guards, — pushing down to the House I presume, — with his hat 
pulled over his brows as if he had been bonneted! I need not 
add that I instantly glided off towards the Mali ; and sidled 
round gracefully into Spring Gardens.” 

“ Luckily ; for he is greatly incensed against you, my dear 
boy!” 

“ Of course, mother, of course. From the day I went to Eton, 
when was he otherwise ?” 

“ But this is a very different affair. He threatens — ” 

“To disinherit me, — to throw me up, — to cut me off with a 
shilling. I know it all, mother ! I have heard it hundreds and 
thousands of times. It is about as alarming to my ear as the 
thunder of airAdelphi melodrama.” 

“ Mark, — I must not hear you talk thus of your father.” 

“ Then don’t listen to my father when he talkes such nonsense 
of me. But I have things of greater consequence to say to you, 
dearest mother,” he continued, having closed the still open draw- 
ing-room door, and taken a seat beside Lady Davenport ; who 
vainly endeavoured to recal his attention to his father’s anathema. 
“ I have a great deal to tell you that will give you pain.” 

Lady Davenport thought, perhaps, that no addition to her 
‘present sorrow was neede4. 

“I have just quitted Lady Meadowes and my cousin.” 

Involuntarily she started, and turned towards the door. As 
if, though this time her husband was at the House of Lords, the 
treason might reach his ear. 

“ You fancied them safe at Meadowes Court. You thought 
poor Amy was an heiress. My dear, dear mother, they are all 
but beggars.” 

“ Impossible ! I knew through the Eustaces that my brother 
left all he possessed in the world to his daughter.” 

“ But he had nothing to leave. The heir-at-law is in actual 
possession of the estate. The house is dismantled-^nninhabited ; 
— the most desolate place you ever beheld.” 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


137 


“ Poor old Mead owes Court !” 

“ Say ratlier poor Lady MeadoAves, — poor little Amy !” 

“You found them, then, Mark? You made all the explana- 
tions we agreed upon?” ^ 

“I found them in a wretched lodging, and was for better 
received than was due to any one bearing the name of Daven- 
port. I disclaimed, however, at once, all share in my father’s 
doings or opinions.” 

“ And Amy — is she pleasing, — does she resemble my poor 
brother ?” 

“ My uncle I never saw. But she res’embles you^ mother ; you, 
and Olivia. You will shortly have an opportunity of judging. 
I am going straight from here to engage lodgings for them. I 
have persuaded them to come to town.” 

“ A rash step, dear Mark, seeing their circumstances are so 
narrow.” 

“ You must do something for them ; we must all do something 
for them.” 

“ You did not, I trust, promise this?” said poor Lady Daven- 
port, conscious how often the disposal of a five pound note was 
beyond her command. 

“ Indeed, I did. I promised that you would be all kindness to 
them. I told Lady Meadowes hoAV bitterly you repented having 
been so tardy in advances of reconciliation to him she has lost.” 

And this. Lady Davenport, even alarmed as she Avas at the 
thought of an impending struggle Avith her husband, could not 
deny. 

“ But it is not too late to make amends,” resumed her son. 
“And I am convinced that when my father sees Avhat a pleasing 
lady-like Avoman is Lady Meadowes, and Avhat a charming creature 
her daughter, he Avill bury the past in oblivion, and receive them 
as they deserve.” 

“ Will you ever gain experience, my dear boy ?” was Lady 
Davenport’s mournful rejoinder. “ Surely you should knoAv your 
father well enough to conclude that if he rejected my poor sister- 
in-law, Avhen prosperous and under her husband’s protection, ho 
is not likely to be kinder to her noAV she is indigent and helpless. 
You, and I, and Hugh, must do Avhat aa'C can ; — cautiously, hoAV- 
CA'er, and by stealth ; or family disunion Avill be the result.” 


138 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


“ And let it !” cried Mark, with indignation. “ By stealth and 
cautiously? No! by Jupiter, — in the open face of day ! I have 
not many relations, mother; but the two I am proudest of, arc 
Amy and her mother. I challenge the whole diy, cold-blooded 
race of Davenports, from tlie wars of the Two Roses to the wars 
of Mark Davenport and his father, to produce anything worthy 
to be their waiting-maid! By stealth? No! You will hear 
me vindicate their claims to my father’s face, ay, as boldly and 
conscientiously as to yours.” 

“Do not, however, too precipitately sacrifice to these now- 
found relatives all consideration for the comfort of your mother!” 
remonstrated Lady Davenport. “Wait, at least, for the advice 
and assistance of Hugh !” 

“I will wait for nothing!” said Captain Davenport, angrily 
seizing his hat. “ I have pledged my word to stand by them. I 
cannot compel you, mother, to keep the promises I made them in 
your name. But my word is not to be broken.” 

He was oflP before she could reply. All her present anxiety 
was^ that he might clear the house without encountering his 
father. The new sources of discord opening between them were 
not likely to slake the blaze of the feud already flaming. 


CHAPTER XYin. 

Lady Meadowes was not altogether fortunate in her self-con- 
stituted champion. Though no man could be more honourable 
of purpose, or more undaunted in carrying it out, he was too 
much of a Hotspur for one who needed quieter sustainment. 
Uninfluenced by the wisdom of his ancestors or experience of his 
contemporaries, he took, in sporting phrase, “ a line of his own 
across country,” which often brought him to grief; betraying 
him in miry ways, and even peril of life and limb. 

It was March when he returned to town, to perpetrate his 
single combat with his father, and throw the whole family into 
confusion. But the buds on the sooty shrubberies of the squares 


PROGRESS AND . PREJUDICE. 


139 


were attempting to turn green, before Captain Davenport pro- 
ceeded to the Paddington station to welcome the inexperienced 
travellers he had taken under his protection. 

Only twice before, in her life, had Lady Meadowes visited 
London, — her daughter and their attendant, never; and as it was 
already dusk when, -weary and saddened, they reached tlie out- 
skirts of the foggy, misty, unsavoury city, wearing that heavy 
coverlid of smoke which modern bombast has dignified into “the 
tiara of commerce,” their impressions were somewhat dishearten- 
ing. Several miles still divided them from the domicile provided 
for them. Captain Davenport’s experience of Hargood’s gloomy 
lodgings had decided him against the interior of the town ; and 
the more fashionable outskirts, with their little two-storied 
pigeon-houses, of equivocal respectability, were ill-adapted, he 
tliought, to the age and appearance, and unprotected position, of 
his cousin Amy. Ever -in extremes, he had consequently selected 
for their domicile the antipodes of these sunny little bird-cages ; 
and engaged a i)ortion of an old-fashioned brick house in the 
Battersea road, the other half of which was partitioned otf for 
the family of the proprietor,— a thriving market gardener. 

To attain this far from attractive abode, with its slanting fioors, 
creaking staircase, sloping ceilings and ill-fitting windows, they 
had to undertake five miles of suburban road, converted by the 
rains of the preceding day into rivers of mud — ill-lighted, ill- 
scented, solitary — the dreariest causeways which ever in her life 
Amy Meadowes had been fated to traverse. Poor old Marlow, 
their prim maiden attendant, heaved a deep sigh as she secretly 
wished they were all safe back in Gloucestershire, on the pleasant 
banks of the Severn. 

Even Marcus, when he saw them installed, enlivened by the 
light of a pair of blinking, tallow candles, and a smoky fire, 

' began to fear he might have chosen better. The horse diair couch 
on which he carefully deposited the invalid, was hard as Neigh- 
bour Savile’s oaken settle; and though Amy declared that the 
tea provided for them, in a black, earthy-smelling teapot, was 
excellent, and that they should make themselves perfectly com- 
fortable on the morrow, her cousin felt his chest tighten at her 
assumed cheerfulness ; and had never so deeply lamented his OAvn 


140 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


want of means to place thsoe dear relatives in a situation more 
consonant with their rights, lie kept glancing at Lady Mea- 
dowcs's pale face and wasted features, til!, albeit unused to the 
melting mood, tears came into his eyes ; and even after, at her 
request, he had taken leave of them for the night, he could not 
forbear remounting the creaking staircase and looking again into 
the sitting-room, to say that if they wanted him earlier than his 
appointed noon- day visit the following day, one of the garden 
lads could be despatcljed by the omnibus to fetch him, and he 
would be with them in a moment. , 

“ I am almost sorry now,” said he, with an involuntary glance 
round their cheerless abode, “ that I did not engage a bed hero, 
or in the neighbourhood. I cannot bear to leave you, alone.” 

He shrank, somehow, fi-om the avowal, in Amy’s presence, that 
he had been debarred from such an arrangement, lest, among 
^ strangers, it might lead to injurious imputations. 

“ If you don’t go away, at once. Cousin Mark, I and Marlow 
must put you, out of the house!” cried Amy, so cheerfully as 
almost to disarm his suspicions of her heav^’-heartedness. And 
in a moment he was gone; leaving them to their weariness and 
their tears. 

Davenport had as yet been unable to extort from his mother 
an explicit promise concerning a renewal of intercourse with 
Lady Meadowes. The woman who had sacrificed her inclina- 
tions through life to the maintenance of family peace, was not 
likely to rush unguardedly into proceedings certain to exaspe- 
rate her lord, and create an unhappy home for Hugh and Olivia. 
They had stronger claims upon her than even her brother’s 
widow. It was quite enough to have to confront just then Lord 
Davenport’s sullen resentment of the conduct of his younger 
son in leaving the army. He had foibidden Marcus tlie house. 
He had forbidden Lady Davenport to communicate with him. 
lie would fiiin have forbidden Hugh. But he knew from former 
experience that it was useless. 

With his usual perversity, however, Mark Davenport had him- 
self efiected what his father’s prohibitions Avould have failed to 
accomplish. When he found his brother seconding Lord Daven- 
port’s projects for his advancement, and strongly recommending 


I 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE, 


141 


his acceptance of the aide-de-carnpsliip, he chose to take in dud- 
geon the interference of Hugh, and express his sentiments in 
terms the most ungracious. 

A coolness naturally ensued. But it was the commencement 
of a busy session, and Hugh Davenport was too fully occupied 
by a tedious committee, which added a long legislative morning 
to a long legislative night, to have leisure for grieving over the 
interruption of fraternal intercourse arising from the turbulent 
spirit of his brother. 

“I wish, dear mother,” said he one day to Lady Davenport, 
“ you would ask my father’s permission to invite young Eustace 
here, with his father and mother, whose names'! see on your 
dinner list for Saturday next.” 

“ Willingly — for we have two places vacant. But I fancied 
you disliked that young man?” 

“ I am not particularly fond of any of the family.” 

“ Nor I,” thought Lady Davenport ; and she sighed when she 
recalled to mind her former motives for cultivating the acquain- 
tance, 

“ It was Marcus, however, not myself, of whom William Eus- 
taco was always the pet aversion. It was Mark who gave him 
at Oxford the name of Young Vapid. Eustace made a capital 
speech the other night. All tlie clubs are talking of it ; and as 
we happen to sit on the same side of the House, I am of course 
interested in his triumph.” 

A formal card of invitation was accordingly written and 
despatched. No fear that the son of a great landed proprietor 
and thorough-going Tory, like Sir Henry Eustace, would prove 
an unwelcome guest to the lord of Ilford Castle. 

The result, of this dinner-party was, that Lady Davenport 
fully concurred in the opinions concerning Young Vapid 
expressed by her son. She was pleased by his endeavors to 
meet the spirit and level of one of those intolerable dinner-par- 
ties composed of dunny, prosy, petty-minded people of estab- 
lished position, whom other people of established position are 
compelled to invite in London, because they have the misfortune 
to live near them in the country. But most of all, she admired 
the tact with which Mr. Eustace appeared to turn the deaf ear 


142 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


becoming a I'espectfnl son, while Lady Louisa held forth, in her 
usual peremptory tone concerning books she did not understand, 
and poliiical measures she could not appreciate. 

“If MarK were here he might take a lesson much to his 
advantage,” glanced through the mind of Lady Davenport. 
And the thougiit that he was absent from his fatlier’s board, and 
long likely to remain so, cast a sudden gloom over her counte- 
nance. 

It brightened, however, when on adjourning to the drawing- 
room after that long, weary dinner, Olivia went the round of 
presentation to her female friends ; and she saw how even those 
lukewarm judges were struck by the sight of her beauty. It 
needed not the admiration of others to apprise the fond mother 
of the native grace investing even her shyness with a peculiar 
charm. But she was delighted to see her encounter, with per- 
fect self-possession, the ordeal of being complimented to her 
face by a half-doting dowager, and loftily interrogated touching 
her studies and pursuits by Lady Louisa Eustace, with the air 
of a doctor of divinity catechising a Sunday-school. 

Olivia was still seated by this education-crazed lady, wLen Mr. 
Eustace, who made his appearance as punctually as the coffee 
tray, approached the sofa where Lady Davenport was listening 
with the good-breeding able to disguise the most perfect absence 
of mind, to the dowuiger’s blundering description of a flower 
show of the preceding day. 

“Your ladyship’s daughter, I presume?” said he, glancing 
towards the poor girl, who was fluttering in the talons of his 
intellectual mamma, like a dove in those of a hawk ; adding, less 
audibly — “ a most singular likeness ! I should have known her 
anywhere as a relation.” 

Lady Davenport, fancying he alluded to herself, pitied his 
deficiency of perception. How w'as she to conjecture that he 
was comparing the ingenuous countenance of Olivia witli that of 
her cousin Am3^ He did not, how'ever, follow up his indiscreet 
remark, by requesting a presentation to the young lady w'hose 
muslin frock and unadorned braids announced her as “ not out :” 
— perhaps because unwilling to undertake the task of reviving a 
victim who had been talked dead by his lady-mother. He 


PROGRESS AND PREJCTDICE. 


143 


endeavored more sagely to recommend himself to Lady Daven- 
port, by relieving her from the necessity of replying to questions 
put by the dowager, much after the style of those addressed by 
‘•correspondents” to weekly newspapers; assuring her that the 
Duchess of Kent had never been Duke of Cornwall — and that 
the Freiscliutz was not the last opera of Rossini. 

He had his rew'ard. "When, on the old lady’s carriage being 
announced, he offered his arm to conduct her to it, after Avhich, 
he was to give a lift to Hugh Davenport in liis brougham to bo 
in time for a 'division, his hostess, while receiving his parting 
bow, expressed a wish to see him again. 

On overliearing the invitation, Hugh Davenport was of opin- 
ion, that his dear mother was nearly as susceptible as himself to 
the flattery and improved deportment of William Eustace. He 
Avould have been still more amused could he have heard his 
father, when the party broke up, observe with much solemnity 
to Lady Davenport, “ a very promising young man, Mr. Eustace, 
to be the son of that old Tweedle-dum, Sir Henry, and that 
dictionary-in-petlicoats. Lady Louisa. Some very remarkable 
proofs he related to me of the superior advantage of sowing, in 
low-lying pastures, the Festuca heterophyla^ instead of Dactylis 
glomerataov Aira ccespitosa^ so much recommended by our Nor-* 
tiiern Agricultural Society.” 

If that dear Duchess, to whom William Eustace was just then 
repairing at the opera, after giving Hugh Davenport the slip at 
the House of Commons, could but have heard him talking tur- 
nips and artificial grasses with an ill-conditioned old landed pro 
prietor ! Above all, if she could have imagined that his object 
in the attempt was to ingratiate himself with the nearest rela- 
tions of an insignificant country girl, — by whom his hand and 
heart had been already ignominously rejected! 

^ 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

Lady Meadowes would not have been induced to renounce so 
readily her plans of provincial retirement, even by the earnest 


144 ' 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


persuasions of her nephew, had he not afforded hopes, amount- 
ing almost to certainty, of a reunion with her brother. 

He had not indeed been perfectly frank with her : for men in 
love conceive themselves privileged to assume a vizard. lie bad 
not courage to avow that he was actually acquainted with Ilar- 
good : fancying that his aunt would infer the covert motive of 
all his advances ’ an act of ingenuity of which that single- 
minded woman was about as capable as, by ruminating on her 
sofa, to discover the north-west passage. He promised, how- 
ever, to leave no means untried to bring together the brother 
and sister. 

Now that they were installed in the environs of London, a 
tliousand coincidences seemed to suggest delay. Ilargood must 
not find him established as the guardian angel of his sister and 
niece, till some act of conciliation had been vouchsafed by his 
parents. The unbending spirit of the clear-sighted man would 
perceive the indelicacy of their relative position : — and, sternly 
ejected, Battersea, would fail to afford him a single step tovrards 
Soho. To engage his mother to meet his wishes, was at present 
impossible. His own wilfulness had created too powerful a bar- 
rier betwixt himself and home. 

All he could do was to trust, as too many of us trust, to the 
chapter of accidents : a confidence which utterly depreciates the 
value of duty and principle. It wms passing pleasant, however, 
to be Avelcomed every morning, — those bright spring mornings, 
when the vivifying influence of purer air and renovated vegeta- 
tion seemed to put new life into his veins, — by the grateful mo- 
ther and lovely, loving girl, who evidently regarded him as a 
guardian angel sent to guide them out of the land of Egypt. 

Blind,— wilfully blind, perhaps, — to the decorum of the case. 
Lady Meadowes could not deny her daughter the enjoyment of 
early wNalks with her cousin, which were to render Amy ac- 
quainted with the beauties of the neighborhood ; the shrubby 
heights of Wandsworth, — the terraced banks of the* Thames. 
Sometimes he took her on The water. Mark was a capital oars- 
man ; and a glowing summer rendered the river breezes a deli- 
cious refreshment. It was there he received from her, in liis 
turn, liis first lessons in It.'dian. It was there he rehearsed to 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


145 


iier, by way of repayment, the stirring lyrics of Macaulay, or 
charmed her ear with the magic rhythm of Edgar Poe. 

In the confiding self-surrender -with which she hung upon his 
accents, spontaneously and unconsciously adopting his sentiments 
and opinions, he fancied he could recognise the influence of what 
the French call la force dit sang. She loved him nearly ns well 
as Olivia, A cousin resembled a sister then, still more closely 
than he had supposed ! Would the time ever come, he woii- 
dered, when Amy’s cousin would be added to the party ; wander- 
ing with thejn among the ferny patlis of Putney Heath, or 
listening to the dipping oars and the even-song of the blackbirds, 
in tlie green dejdhs of Twickenham meadows ? 

Had the more cautious judgment of the Eector of Radensford, 
or his gruff colleague, been exercised upon the state of the case, 
Lady Meadowes would perhaps have been accused of rashness, in 
her unreserved adoption of her nephew’s supremacy in her 
house. But their interference was limited to the control of her 
pecuniary affairs. They had already invested her small per- 
sonalty of j£900. They were to receive quarterly, and pay down 
to her, her jointure; but by Sir Mark’s will she was left sole guar- 
dian of her daughter. And even had it been otherwise, what 
I)retenco could they have found for denouncing an intimacy, 
likely to place their ward in the honorable position of daughter- 
in-law to the highly-allied sister of her father ? 

The lady of the forlorn ringlets had in fact accounted to her 
patron Dr. Burnaby, for the premature departure of her lodgers, 
by announcing an appn>aching marriage. 

On his first visit to Clifton, he was assured that “ his hinter- 
esting prottijay was about to he led to the Ilymnniinnial haltar 
by the Honorable Captain Davenport ; leastwise it was to he 
’oped so, — for there happearaiice of a hengagement.” 

And when the vindictive lady endeavored to avenge by this ma- 
licious insinuation the slights inflicted on the independent gen- 
tleman w^^om Captain Davenport had threatened to kick into a 
limbo often named in vulgar parlance, though unknown to 
ancient or modern geographers, — “ the middle of next week,” — 
the good old doctor accepted the announcement in its pleasantest 


146 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


sense ; and vrrote immediately to otfer his hearty congratulations 
to the mother of liis “ hinteresting prottijay.” 

Tiie letter startled her. But, however little she knew of the 
world, Lady Meadowes was aware that, in nine instances out of 
ten, such reports attend the commencement of every intimacy 
likely to end in courtship and marriage ; and, prematurely pro- 
mularated, often lead to their termination. She contented her- 
self, therefore, with vaguely replying that there was no 
probability of her losing her dear child so soon as her kind 
friend seemed to anticipate and, having committed liis letter 
to the flames, hoped that the subject was disposed of. 

One day, when dusty and tired, Mark Davenport arrived at 
Ids lodgings, after spending a pleasant June morning at Batter- 
sea, — partly in his favorite occui)ation of sketching from nature 
with Amy, when the emulation excited between them served as 
a stimnlant to both, — partly in reading aloud to Lady Meadowes, 
Fortune’s descriptions of Oriental scenery, to W'hich his own 
experience enabled him to append unnumbered valuable com- 
ments, — he found his brother Hugh waiting for him, newspaper 
in hand, in his easy-chair. 

They had not met for weeks ; and Mark was prepared when 
they did meet, to testify the most magnanimous resentment. 
But the man must have possessed a colder heart than liis, who 
could have resisted the extended, liand and winning smile of 
the attached brother who started up to greet him, as though 
estrangement between them were out of the question. 

Both longed to say “forgive me.” Both longed to say “I 
was w'rong.” Tliough in truth, blame was attachable only to 
tlie less repentant of the two. 

“ I could not stay away any longer,”. Hugh was the first to 
observe. “I have been wanting to come this long time. I 
have many things, my dear brother, to say to you; hut first 
and chiefly, our clear fatlier is failing fast, and I beseech you 
come with me, and make your j)eace.” 

To this Mark gave an indignant reply, urging that his father 
had forbidden him the house; but after much urging on the part 
of his brother, he allowed himself to he persuaded, and sallied 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


147 


forth with Hugh to enter that home where he had so long been 
a stranger. 

His brother was too Avise to exhibit either surprise or exulta- 
tion at the moA^e. He had long been accustomed to accept liis 
brother as he could get him ; and he accordingly talked all the 
Avay down stairs and into Pall Mall, of the telegraphic news 
from Paris, in the ev'ening papers — anything rather than tlie 
subject uppermost in their hearts. 

The interview betAveen the stubborn father and stubborn son 
Avas, at last, all but impossible to accomplish. Poor Hugh had 
to undertake in Spring Gardens the same hard Avork, using the 
same levers and pulleys he had already brought into action. 
But the end of it Avas that Mark stayed to dinner in Ncav 
Street ; not a little shocked to find that Lord Davenport Avas far 
too seriously affected to appear at table. 

He Avas repaid for the concession by the heartfelt joy of his 
brother and sister. Hot that their tears Avere altogether 
staunched by his presence. But there Avas more comfort for 
them, now that this, their brother, Avho Avas lost, Avas restored. 

After dinner. Lord Davenport appeared in the drawing-room ; 
and it seemed strange to find him established there in his novel 
character of an invalid. But even when reclining feebly in an 
easy-chair, the acerbity of his nature Avas perceptible through 
the languid movement and tremulous voice. Though gratified 
by his son’s return, he could not for the life and soul of him 
refrain from his usual taunts. He informed Marcus that ])oor 
Olivia had gone back sadly lately in her draAving, — as well she 
might: — that he had been forced to sell his bay colt by Jason, — 
since no longer Avanted for a charger, — more Avas the pity, — 
Avhere Avas the use of keeping it, to eat its head off? 

On finding the rebel remain silent, — for Marcus, painfully im- 
pressed by the dispensation Avhich had overtaken the hard old 
man, ansAvered never a Avord, — he became as angry Avith his 
son’s submission as ever he had been Avith his assumptions. 

“What the devil! Hadn’t he a Avord to say for himself? 
Evidently didn’t care a straAV for anything that happened Avithin 
the pale of his oAvn family.” 

“Answer him, — no matter AAffiat,” Avhispered Hugh, under 


148 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


cover of the tea-tray, which was at tliat moment passing round. 
“ We are ordered carefully to avoid the slightest exasperation.” 

Marcus accordingly inquired the name of the purchaser of the 
bay colt ; aud threatened to bring up Olivia's halting proficiency 
by a severe course of lessons. 

“You will find Miss Olivia requires putting down, instead of 
bringing up,” — said the old despot, with a grim smile, which 
appeared peculiarly hideous on his ghastly face. “ Your sister 
has had hei* flatterers, lately, though your compliments have 
been wanting. We have made a pleasant acquaintance, Mark, 
during your absence. Shall I tell him. Lady Davenport?” 

“ Mark is well acquainted with Mr. Eustace,” stammered her 
ladyship, remembering with dismay her son’s antipathy to the 
individual who, till tlie moment of Lord Davenport’s illness, had 
perseveringly frequented the house. 

“Ay, but he never saw him in his new character of Sir 
Charles Grandison,” added the old lord, whom the completion 
of his family circle rendered, for him^ almost jocular. “ Capital 
pheasant shooting at Horndean Court, Mark ! Four or five years 
hence,” he continued, lowering his voice as if to be unheard by 
his daughter, “ young Eustace might suit you very well as a 
brother-in-law.” 

“ Suit me ? As a 'brother-in-law cried Mark, no longer able 
to master his temper. “A pitiful fellow, Avithout moral pith or 
marroAV, — a snob only fit to dance attendance on dowagers!” 

“ My dear Mark, you have mistaken your man,” interposed 
Hugh, who discerned by the sAvelling veins in his father’s fore- 
head, that the mercury of his ire Avas rising. “ You are talking 
of the Billy Eustace of last year. The Eustace who visits here, 
belongs to another species.” 

“The transformation must be very recent, then. Not six 
months ago, he was refused as an empty coxcomb by the daughter 
of Lady MeadoAves.” 

“ By whose daughter?” muttered Lord DaA^enport, almost inar- 
ticulately. 

“ My late uncle’s, Amy MeadoAves.” 

• “ You mean to say that Mr. Eustace actually offered his hand 
to the offspring of— of that governess-Avoman ?” 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


149 


“ To his credit be it spoken, he did.” 

“ Ay, ay I Plain enough — plain enough !” rejoined the old 
man, })anting for breath, “Meadowes Court and two or three 
thousand a-year cover a multitude of sins.” 

“ You labour under a complete mistake, my dear father,” cried 
Mark. “Amy Meadowes has not a shilling. The whole pro- 
perty has devolved upon the heir-at-law, the present baronet, 
Sir Jervis Meadowes.” 

“Thank God !” was the vindictive rejoinder of his lordship — 
losing sight, in this unexpected triumph, of the slight offered to 
Olivia. “ So should all such shameful matches be punished !” 

“ You would scarcely say so, my lord, if you were acquainted 
with my Cousin Amy and her mother,” persisted Mark, in spite 
of the interdictory gestures by which his motlier and brother 
were endeavoring to stop his indiscreet communications. “ Two 
more amiable, more charming women never lived — worlds too 
good for an empty impostor like William Eustace!” 

“ You know them, then, Sir?” inquired Lord Davenport, in a 
low tremulous voice. 

“ Intimately. I left them only a few hours ago.” 

“ Being aw'are that, through life, I have interdicted all inter- 
course between them and my family ?” 

“ Having heard so from vague rumour, — from your servants, — 
from country gossips. From yourself, I never heard mention of 
their name : except that you have once or twice, when angry, 
accused me of being a thorough Meadowes.” 

“ And so you are, — and so you are, — so, by God Almighty, 
you are!” cried the old man, almost in a state of frenzy — “to 
harp on the quibble that I never expressly forbad you to con- 
sort with these low baggages ; — when you Icnow — when — 
when — ” A frightful execration closed the sentence ho was 
unable rationally to terminate. 

It was the last articulate word uttered in this world by Lord 
Davenport. A few minutes afterwards, he was borne insensible 
to his room, and laid on the bed from which he was never to rise 
again. Apothecaries, instantly summoned, came in haste ; and 
pliy.-icians, at leisure. In vain ! Cupping and leeching could 
not supersede the will of Heaven. They did not even serve to 


150 


PROGRESS AXD PREJUDICE. 


torment the palsy-stricken man, — so heavy upon him lay the 
hand of death. 

Next day, all Avas over. The window-shutters in New Street 
Av'ere reverentially closed ; and the answer at the door to inquii- 
ing visitors was, that “ My Lady and Miss Davenport were very 
poorly ; and Lord Davenport as well as could be expected.” 

Let us hope for the credit of the decorous-looking family 
butler, by whom the solemn phrase was so often repeated, 
that it was the present peer to whose present state he made 
allusion. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

Let no one imagine that, because released by this solemn event 
from domestic thraldom, Mark Davenport so far lost sight of the 
decencies of life as to renew in haste the intimacy with which it 
was so sadly connected. However reckless his nature, he was 
painfully shocked by the scene he had witnessed ; still more so, 
by the consciousness of his share in bringing it to pass. Tho 
Avhole family, horror-stricken, nay even grief-stricken by the pre- 
sence of death, united in beseeching him ‘to remain with them 
for a time, to afford both counsel and comfort. 

In New Street, therefore, was he at once established ; and from 
thence, — ^from the roof Avhich covered his father’s coffin, — it 
would have been heinous to emerge for the direct purpose of 
outraging his latest wishes. 

His advice too, was required in a thousand emergencies. The 
new head of the family seemed unwilling to take tho smallest 
step without consulting him. As to Lady Davenport, the know- 
ledge she had recently acquired of his friendship for the niece 
and sister-i n-hnv, towards whom she liad acted so harshly, though 
feelings of delicacy restrained her at such a moment from any 
allusion to the forbidden toi'ic, seemed to render him the dearest 
of her children. She was not satisfied to have him a moment 
absent from her side. 


PROGRESS AND rREJb’DICE. 


151 


It was arranged that he was to escort her and his sister to 
Ilford Castle, to be in readiness to receive the body of his father, 
which the young lord undertook to accompany to its last abode. 
The funeral was to take place within ten days of his accession, 
to the title : and till then, no object was alloAved to divert the 
attention of the family from the respect and forms of respect 
due to the dead. 

Independent of the usual pomp which converts virtuous men 
deceased into saints, and sinners into virtuous, all that tran- 
spired after death of the late lord of Ilford Castle, was highly 
to his advantage. The opening of his will brought to light that 
not only had his penurious habits of self-denial tended in a won- 
derful manner to the extension of his family estate, but that the 
most prudent combinations and foresiglit had enabled him to 
double the portion of his daughter, and lay by fur the benelit of 
Ids second son no less a sum than forty thousand pounds, in addi- 
tion to the provision which was his birthright. During those 
uneasy years in which the impracticable Marcus had persevered 
in kicking against the pricks, sometimes fancying himself an 
object of malicious persecution on tlie part of his father, — at 
others, of complete indifference, — Lord Davenport had unswerv- 
injtly watched over his interests, both private and professional; 
as a series of elaborate codicils to his will, and copies of letters 
to the Horse Guards, now brought to light. 

Among other testamentary suggestions was a request 
addressed to his successor, that iiis brother should succeed to 
the representation of Kawburne : the improved fortunes of 
Marcus justifying his entrance into the Senate, Had no such 
desire been expressed, indeed, tlie seat vacated by the new peer 
would, as a matter of course, have been offered to bis brother. 
But there was somethiTig in the forethouglit evinced by his 
father in his behalf, which called up all the compunction of that 
nndutifiil son. After peru.sing such sentences, traced by the 
tremulous hand of the old man now stretched in the stiffness of 
death, he could no more have disobeyed liis last wishes by rush- 
ing off to Battersea, than have smitten him as he lay in his grave- 
clothes. 

There \vas no need to write and apprise Lady Meadowes of 


152 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


what had occurred. The newspapers took care that an event so 
important to society as the exit from the stage of life of a 
wealthy peer, should he suitably recorded and deplored — with 
an appropriate emblazonment in the ‘■‘■Illustrated News” of his 
armorial bearings, in token of his being conjoined with the 
dust. Marcus did^ however, previously to his leaving Loudon 
tor the North, despatch a few lines acquainting her that, having 
succeeded by his father’s decease to ample means, he trusted site 
would permit him, as one of tlio nearest relatives of her late 
husband, to place her and his eoiisin in a more agreeable ])osi- 
tion : enclosing a cheque to her order upon his banker, which l.e 
entreated her to till up at her convenience. But he knew both 
Lady Meadowcs and- Amy w'ell enough to be certain that tliis 
vrould afford a poor substitute for the visit and words of alTec- 
tion ho did not at that moment feel entitled to afford. 

Even when the mournl'ul ceremony was at an end, till the 
conclusion of which the new Lord Daven[)ort seemed scarcely in 
lawful possession of his honors, Marcus wms unable to resume at 
once the command of his leisure. Ills brother continued to 
look to him with the helplessness of a lo-ving cldld. lie was 
made to confer with the men of business and address tlio 
tenantry, as if he rather than the elder horn were in possession 
of the title and estates. And if^ord Davenport did not insist 
on his accompanying him to town when he went up to take his 
seat in the House of Lords, it was only because, the time being 
too short for tlie issuing of a new writ for Rawbnrne during tho 
present Session, he dispensed with his company in favor of tho 
mother and sister still more in need of his protection. 

At Ilford Castle, therefore, with Lady Davenport and Olivia, 
he remained ; and in their congenial society, amidst the most 
delicious summer weather, how different did the place appear 
from the irksome prison of the preceding winter. 

At times, lie might sigh after a companion more intellectur.i 
than his little sorrowful sister; to whose sympathetic eye to 
jioint out tlie matchless beauty of the scenery, and the improve- 
inents he was jirepared to suggest hereafter to a brother, as 
eager as himself to ameliorate the condition of the working 
classes. But if, when mooning in the twilight, in the gardens 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


153 


now fragrant and florid in their summer luxuriance, he not only 
dreamed of such companionship but invested it with a pair of 
large dark eyes and a blouse of ^rey camlet, lie had not yet 
allowed himself to avow even to his mother, that he Avas such a 
“thorough Meadowes” as to contemplate the confirmation of 
his happiness for life by stooping to an unequal marriage. 

But how, during this interval, Avas poor Amy enduring so 
sudden an interruption of her golden days of happiness ? Even 
as girls of her age, under the influence of a first attachment, 
usually support the trying moments of separation from its 
object; fancying each of them an age, and every inhabitant of 
the civilized globe in league to render those ages a term of tor- 
ment. Had it been possible for one by nature as blithe as a 
bird and sweet-tempered as an angel, to become peevish and per- 
verse under the excitement of constant Avatchfulness and repin- 
ings. Lady MeadoAves Avould have passed a miserable summer. 
But for her mother’s sake, the anxious girl took as much pains 
to conceal her heart-aches, as she had done to meet Avith forti- 
tude their reverses of fortune. 

She Avas rewarded by the improving health and increasing 
cheerfulness of the invalid ; who, though she seldom permitted 
herself to revert to the Davenport family or their affairs, Avas 
not the less convinced in the happy secresy of her heart, that 
the wealth and distinction acquired by Marcus had remoA’ed the 
only obstacle to his seeking the hand of his cousin. As soon as 
the formalities of the case Avould admit, she felt certain of his 
making his appearance among them to accomplish the dearest 
Avish of her heart. 

Meanwhile the influence of the absent one Avas not a moment 
suspended. Till he came again, till he returned from that terri- 
ble Ilford Castle, Avhich appeared to Amy as many thousand 
miles off as though Cousin Mark AV'ere still botanising in the 
Himalaya, Avhat could she do better than devote herself to the 
study of the art so dear to him? She rose accordingly, Avith 
the sun, to AA^atch its ever-varying sports and gloamings among 
tlie kindling clouds, and transfer them to her sketch-book ; and 
almost every line of the copy of “ Bell’s Anatomy of Expres- 
sion ” Avhich he had left Avith her for perusal, had she committed 


154 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


to memory. Alas! poor Amy! How was she to conjecture 
that in a murky back-room in Solio abided a Muse, in whose 
bright intelligence all she was laboring to acquire, was sponta- 
neous and intuitive : — that unknown cousin, on whose image the 
absent Marcus dwelt with a perseverance as infatuated, as was 
squandered by her own young heart on the image of the absent 
Marcus ! 

A portion, a very small portion of the garden adjoining their 
quaint old house, had been fenced off by Mrs. Margams at Cap- 
tain Davenport’s solicitation, the preceding spring, to substitute 
a few flower-plots for the asparagus-beds and ridges of French 
beans, extended under their windows ; — a poor substitute for the 
beautiful shrubberies and greenhouses of Meadowes Court, but 
delightful to Amy and her mother as a token of the kindly 
thoughtfulness of Marcus. And now, as the repining girl 
watched, day after day, the growth, and bloom, and decline of 
the successive summer flowers, she could scarcely forbear com- 
plaining to Mrs. Margams, her jolly comely old landlady, of 
their transient nature. “Scarcely a blossom left! If her cousin 
absented himself any longer, there would not be so much as a 
carnation to offer him on his return I” 

The old market-woman, who went rumbling off in her cart to 
Covent Garden, every morning, at daybreak, and returned 
thence only when daylight was disappearing, was beginning 
indeed to feel nearly as much surprised as “Miss” that the 
“Young Capting” for a time so devoted to “her ladies” was 
heard of no more. 

One morning — the summer was over and even the autumn 
beginning to wane — many hours after jolly Mrs. Margams had 
rumbled off to “ maarket,” presiding in her black calash over a 
cartful of hampers of salsify and spinach, Amy had been present 
as usual at her mother’s toilet, and was assisting Marlow to 
place her comfortably on the sofa before she established herself 
at her drawing-table for the day, when she was startled by a 
footstep on the creaking stairs far heavier than that of the boy 
who at that hour usually brought in the newspaper. The door 
was hastily opened — a handsome young man in deep mourning 
hurried forward— Cousin Mark was by their side! 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


155 


In five minutes, all three felt ns though he had never been, 
away. For he was come back full of animation, joy, and love; 
and all compunctions were overlooked in the delight of the 
meeting. Everyliiing, in short, was overlooked; for in tho 
excitement of the moment he folded Amy in his arms, and, foi 
the first time, imprinted a cousinly kiss upon her forehead. 

“ You must forgive me,” said he, with a half-conscious laugh, 
as he performed the same ceremony over tho thin trembling 
hand of Lady Mead owes. “ I am so happy — so tery happy to 
find myself with you again!” 

Scarcely less happy. Lady Meadowes was not unrelenting. 
She listened anxiously while lie announced that he Avas “ only 
just come to town Avith his brother — on business — to squabble 
with lawyeis — and go through a few necessary forms.” lie Avae 
a long time in coming to the point so near the hearts of both. 

‘•My mother is still in sad low spirits,” said he, at length. 

It is only lately I liave venUtred to talk to her about you — and 
cxidain a thousand things it Avas necessary she should knoAV. 
But she knoAvs all, noAv; and though she has not charged mo 
Avith a letter, as avc could Avish, The moment she returns 
to town — (it Aviil not be 1 11 January, I’m afraid, dear Lady Mea- 
dowes) — she Avill hasten thither Avith my sister, and take our 
dearest Amy to her heart.” 

This was speaking plainly. Tliis Avas saying all, or nearly all, 
the mother could desire. But the result of so complete a reali- 
sation of her liopes AA^as a sudden ; and so evident and painful 
to Avitness Avas her emotion, that to resume a subject likely to 
increase her agitation aa'rs just then impossible. 

Luckily, the day Avas fine; and nothing seemed more natural 
tlian that, after a little desultory conversation, Marcus should 
propose a Avalk. It Avas like falling unconsciously into his old 
] mbits. He Avanted, he said, to ascertain whether Amy had 
Avorked as diligently in her garden as Avitli her color-box. He 
Avanted, — and he glanced fondly and significantly towards her as 
lie spoke, — to “have a little private talk Avith Ids cousin.” 

They did not loiter long over tlie glaring petunias and African 
marigolds, wliicli were the pride of Mrs. Margam’s heart. 
Away they went, on the old track, — a favorite road bordered 


156 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


Avitli villas n 11(1 garden?, <and leading to the river: |Lnd though 
no fashionable carriages now disturbed its dnst on their way to 
(laiiies’s adjoining nursery-gardens, a few tramping holiday- 
makers, hurrying to Cremorne, stared after the handsome young 
couple with their smiling faces and deep mourning, deciding 
them to be a newly-married pair. 

Kegardlessof the yellow leaves, and dusty, shrivelled hedge- 
rows, so changed since their last expedition, they went on and 
on ; and had readied the more secluded portion of the lane, be- 
fore Marcus found courage to unburden his heart. 

Your mother is still very feeble, dear Amy,” said he. ‘‘ I 
wanted to talk to her on a most important subject, — a subject 
that involves all the haiipiness of my life. But I was afraid. I 
really was afraid of shaking that ft*agile frame. You must help 
me, Amy. You must bear your portion of the danger and diffi- 
culty. May I cou-nt on you, darling Amy, to do your part ?” 

It needed not the fond pressure of the arm by which these 
words were accompanied, to point out to bis cousin the nature of 
tlie office to be imposed upon her. 

‘‘ I have some news , — good news I hope she \vill think it, — to 
communicate to my aunt. But I scarcely dare attempt it to-day. 
You must prepare the way this evening, Amy : and to-morrow 
1 may be able to venture all. 

“In the first place, my dear child,” said he, “you must pre- 
pare her for an interview with her brother — ” 

“ Her brother ? My uncle lives, then ?” murmured Miss Mea- 
dowes, — for this was not the question the expectation of which 
had caused her heart to throb, or her eyes to glisten. 

“I should long ago have satisfied her of the fact,” resumed 
Mark, “for Mr. Ilargood was known to me previous to our first 
interview. But circumstances connected with himself and his 
family, rendered it desirable to postpone the announcement, liar- 
good is a peculiar man, — good, gifted, but eccentric, — and far 
from easy to deal with. The wounds inflicted on bis pride by 
the Meadowes and Davenport families, aro still festering in his 
heart. Even against myself, though a mere collateral, he has 
exliibited the most vindictive rancor. I almost dread, Amy, 
unless at a moment when Lady Meadowes is in the enjoyment 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 157 

of her best health and composure, any attempt at an interview 
between them.” 

' He paused, — eitlicr for breath or reflection ; and Amy fancied 
he might be waiting for her opinion. 

‘‘ It is hard to decide for others in matters of feeling,” said 
she. “But had I an only brother, long estranged from me, I 
could not rest an hour till I had fallen on his neck, and entreated 
him to exchange forgiveness with me.” 

“ You are a dear and good girl, Amy ; and ivomyour entreaty, 
forgiveness could never be withheld. But llargood’s is a differ- 
ent nature, — the nature of the old Puritans, — from whom, he 
once told me, he was lineally descended, — conscientious, upright, 
but hard and pitiless. Sooner or later, however, the attcMupt to 
soften him must be made ; not only for yours and your mother’s 
sake, Amy, but for mine and hers.” 

Miss Meadowes felt puzzled ; and her expressive face was 
turned inquiringly towards her cousin, for the first time during 
their walk. 

“Yes, dearest, for hers; — for the sake of your two cou.sins, 
— }»[ark, anil Mary.” 

Amy, who knew only of a cousin Olivia, was still more 
astonished. 

“ For I have not yet told you,” he resumed in a more hurried 
manner, “ half the happiness awaiting you. Your uncle Edward 
Hargood has a daughter, — nearly of your own age, — lovely — to 
my thought at least — in person as in mind : — full of the highest 
qualities, the highest genius, — noble-minded, honest-hearted — 
the epitome of all tliat is touching and ennobling in your sex.” 

“You are acquainted with her then?’' said Amy, in a voice 
that differed singularly from her usual tones. 

Acquamted her? For nearly a year past, Amy, she 
iias been the ruling influence of my life ! It was for her sake, — 
it wuos with the view' of furthering my addresses to her, — that 
I first .<;ought out the unknowm aunt and cousin who constituted 
so valuable a link betw'een us. I dare to make you this frank 
avowal, darling Amy, because since I came to know you, I have 
loved you for your own sweet sake, almost as much as for 
Mary’s.” , 


158 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


lie did not hear tlie gasping sigh that burst from the bosom 
of liis companion. He was listening only to himself. 

‘‘ And when you come to know your cousin,” he continued, 
“you will open your heart to her, for her sake, as I now ask 
you, dear cousin, to do for mine. Esteem and admiration Mary 
Hargood must command from every one. Attachments such as 
mine is, and I trust yours will become, must remain the privilege 
of the few.” 

Amy’s heart was sinking : her legs were giving way under 
her. But there was no resting place at hand. Even had a seat 
been near, she would have shrunk from the betrayal of her weak- 
ness. But Mark, in his paroxysm of selfish passion, heard and 
saw nothing of her faltering ; and proceeded to describe his in- 
troduction, already known to the reader, into the silent, solitary 
studio where the patient girl stood slaving away the brigljt 
morning of her days, for the maintenance of her indigent fa- 
mily. 

“Think, my dearest cousin,” said he, “think of the happiness 
awaiting me, in the power of transporting this noble girl* from 
her dungeon, into the sunshine of a prosperous home and affec- 
tionate family.” 

Amy thought of it, ay ! thought of it with a degree of anguish 
which was as the burning of iron into her flesh and calculated 
to leave a scar upon her wounded heart, ineffaceable till it should 
have ceased to beat ! 

But she uttered not a word, — she uttered not a moan. She 
listened with patience while, throughout their way homewards 
her selfish cousin, engrossed by his own transports, left no cir- 
cumstance untold of his happy hopes and expectations. 


CHAPTER XX. 

It did not stifike Lady Meadowes as at all surprising, that, 
after so prolonged a Ute-d-tete between the supposed lovers, they 
should part at the door ; her nephew having doubtless delegated' 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


159 


to Am}’- the duty of asking her consent to his proposals. It did 
not even surprise her tlia-t her daughter, instead of rushing into 
her presence and asking her blessing, should retire for a time 
into her own room. Overpowered by the emotions consequent 
on her new position, Amy was doubtless endeavoring to recover 
breath and self-possession for the task of apprising her that the 
best of daughters Avas destined to become the happiest of 
wives. 

But when half an hour — an hour — more than an hour, passed 
away, and no Amy made her appearance, the good mother greAV 
a little uneasy. She could not move unassisted from her couch. 
But Marlow, summoned by her little hand-bell, Avas desired to go 
into her young lady’s room, and inquire Avhether she Avould not 
take, some refreshment after so long a walk. 

Poor, good mother! She fancied this ruse Avould succeed. 
She expected to see her darling hurry into the drawing-room, to 
make a clean breast of her happy prospects. 

The report rendered by MarloAv that Miss Amy, overtired by 
lier Avalk, Avas lying doAvn and nearly asleep, was rather a disap- 
pointment than a warning. And Avhen, after the lapse of a full 
hour. Lady Meadowes herself rose from her couch, and crept 
quietly into the room, on finding Amy still Avrapt in slumber, she 
was more inclined to rejoice than to experience the .smallest un- 
easiness. 

Poor, good mother! To believe that a daughter such as hers, 
newly aflSanced and full of joy, could sink oft' into the heaviness 
of sleep Avithout a Avord of gratulation exchanged between tliem ! 
She gazed anxiously on her child, as Amy lay extended on the 
bed, with her face half buried in the pilloAV, half covered Avith 
the locks of her dishevelled hair. For so fatigued Avas she, that 
she had left untouched the tresses escaped from the comb ; and 
it Avas only tlirough that partial veil the outline of her features 
was discernible. 

“ IIoAV Avrong of him to take her so far — hoAV very, 'cery un- 
reasonable!” murmured Lady Meadowes, as she moved slowly 
back to her accustomed place. “Amy is but delicate. He ought 
not to have overtaxed her strength.” 


ICO 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


Tlie dinner hour arrived, wliich, in that humble household was 
an early one ; and Amy was still fast asleep. It was not till dusk, 
— again early, for the autumn was far advanced, — that Amy 
emerged quietly from her room ; her hair carefully rebraided — 
her dress carefully refreshed ; but with a sort of unnatural quie- 
tude pervading her face and person, as if suddenly converted into 
stone, or walking in her sleep. 

Having approached and kissed her mother, she jested faintly 
on her oAvn laziness in having absented herself from the dinner- 
table for the sake of rest. But to Lady Meadowes’s entreaties 
that she would still “take something,” she replied by a request 
for tea. She was so completely overtired, that solid refreshment 
Avas distasteful. 

“It Avas very, tery Avrong of Mark to take you so far,” said 
Lady Meadowes, in a tone of vexation ; for instinctiA^ely she 
began to fear more Avas amiss Avith Amy, than the over-exten- 
sion of her Avalk. “ It Avas selfish of him to consider you so 
little.” 

“ You must not blame him, dear mamma,” said Amy, placing 
herself on a Ioav stool, Avhich she often occupied beside Lady 
Meadowes’s couch. “ He came to bring us news likely to alford 
A ou such heartfelt pleasure, likely at once so to surprise and gra- 
tify you.” 

“Not surprise me, darling — I Avas prepared for it” — replied 
her mother, stooping to imprint a kiss upon her cold forehead, 
and inexpressibly relieved by this 0])ening. 

“ Not prepared for what I am about to tell you, mother. You 
must call up all your self-command, fur good neAvs is sometimes 
as painful to hear as bad.” 

“ I am prepared — I am prepared !” said Lady Meadowes — per- 
plexed and painfully anxious. “ Tell me, my child ! What, wh.at 
had Mark to communicate ?” 

“ That my Uncle Hargood is not only alive, but Avell and pros- 
perous ; that he inhabits London ; that Ave may see him if Ave 
Avill, to-morroAV.” 

“ God be thanked!” murmured Lady MeadoAves, clamping her 
hands fervently together. “ My brother ; my dear, dear brotherl 
To-morrow, Amy ? Why not to-night ? It is not late.” 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


IGl 


“ Jbo late ; and we are neither of us strong enough for the in- 
terview,” replied Amy, hiintly. “We have borne his absence 
long; let us bear it a lew Ijoiirs longer.” 

“AVell, well! I must take patience, I suppose. I am accus- 
tomed, Amy, to take patience. But tell me, dearest child, how 
came Captain Davenport to discover him?” 

“ I can scarcely tell you how. My uncle is, it seems, a man of 
letters; well known and respected in his calling,” said Amy, to 
whom prudence suggested some limit to her immediate disclo- 
sures. 

“Well-known and respected in his calling,” mechanically re- 
peated Lady Meadowes. “ Yet scarcely distinguished, or his name 
Avould have reached us through the public press.” 

“Many authors are celebrated under a nomde plume. We may 
not know my Uncle Hargood’s. We know so little, mother, of 
what is passing in London!” 

“ True; true! And Marcus lives in the centre of the intellec- 
tual world. But why did he not come and tell me all this him- 
self? There is so much I want to know ; so much I want to 
ask. Edward is now a middle-aged man. Is he married, Amy?” 

“A widower.” 

“With children?” 

“Several, I believe,” replied Miss Meadowes, whose mind was 
made up to leave untouched a chapter, for the discussion of which 
she knew her moral strength to be unequal. 

“ Several children ! Several dear nephews and nieces! How 
often have you wished for this, dear Amy! How fortunate for 
you !” 

“ Yes ; ff on acquaintance my cousins love me.” 

“ How can it be otherwise, my child ? Look at Marcus. In 
spite of a family quite as much alienated from us as my brother’s 
— he sought us, he loved us, he devoted himself to our cause. I 
feel persuaded that Edward’s children will become equally dear.” 

“God grant it!” was Amy’s scarcely audible reply. “Surely, 
mother, the evenings are getting chilly enough fora fire?” she 
-added, with an involuntary shiver. “May we not have a fire? 
Shall I ring?” 

The tea-tray, opportunely brought in by Marlow, afibrded a 


1G2 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


welcome iuterniption to tlieir confidences. But was Lady Mea- 
dowfs gmwing as selfish as her nephcAv. that, in the midst of the 
tumultuous emotions besieging her heart, she had no leisure to 
note, when the lamp was lighted, the death like paleness of her 
child? 

So long as Marlow was fussing about the room, to resume their 
conversation was impossible. The fire had been lighted by the 
“ gurl’’ — not without sulky mutterings about the unreasonable- 
ness of the demand at so late an hour. Amy sat shuddering 
down before it ; chieliy that, by turning her back towards her 
mother’s sofa, the disturbance of her features might remain un- 
noticed. But no sooner had the two servants left the room, 
after removing the tea-things, than the nervgus and excited Lady 
Meadowes resumed her questioning and cross-questioning. Had 
Mark said this ? Had Mark undertaken that? When was he to 
write? When- was he to return? 

Poor Amy found all this too much. She began to feel the 
room circling round with her. Dizzy, despairing, she asked leave 
ta retire to rest. 

“ If you would permit Marlow to wait upon you alone to- 
night, dear mother, it would be a relief to me,” said she, faintly. 
I cannot shake off my fatigue. Sleep, alone, can restore me. 
And we have a busy day before us to-morrow ! I must rise tery 
early, to go and fetch my uncle to you. Ho ! mother, no ! Im- 
possible for you to attempt the exertion of seeking him out,” 
she continued, interrupting the proposal Lady Meadowes was 
beginning to make. “ You are not equal to it. You are uncer- 
tain, too, how he may receive you. My uncle appears to be a 
peculiar person — severe and resentful. Against you he may 
cherish animosities. I can have done nothing to offend him.” 

“ You offend him, Amy! You offend any oneP 

“ He may, therefore, hold out less sternly against me than 
against yourself. I have his address. Let me go there early, in 
a cab, with Marlow if you think it better ; and, trust me, trust 
your child, mother, before the day is over, he shall be here.” 

The objections raised by Lady Meadowes were gradually over- 
ruled by the mild perseverance of her daughter. When she 
bestowed upon Amy her parting kiss for the night, all was settled 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


1C3 


between them. The pre-occupied mother hade her, carelessly, 
“ take care of herself and sleep off her fatigues, for she was 
looking sadly pale then, almost before Amy had left tlie room, 
■was resuming her audible ejaculations of “ Several children. 
What a heavy charge for a widower. If they are but half as 
handsome and as clever as dear Edward used to bel” 

Alas! it was evidently the spirited joung brother of Ilenstead 
Vicarage, the excited Lady Meadowes was preparing to meet on 
the morrow. The present was nothing. Surrounded by visions 
of the past, she saw nothing, knew nothing, that was passing 
around her. 

It was a rainy, misty day — the first fog of approaching winter; 
and very long did that wet, dreary drive appear even to Marlow, 
as their rough vehicle jolted leisurely from Battersea to Pnlte- 
ney street. She was anxious to arrive early ; apprised by Mark 
Davenport that her uncle’s professional avocations often took him 
out for the day. 

Her diligence had not its reward, however. The same little 
weazened female servant, who had so often repulsed her cousin 
Mark, the preceding year, answered her inquiries whether Mr. 
Ilargpod were at home by a sour negative — “ Master was out.” 

“ When -was he expected back?” 

“ She could not say. Certainly not before an hour or so. 
Would the lady please to call again?” 

“ The lady would very much prefer to wait for Mr. Hargood’s 
return.” And perceiving the hesitation of tlie woman to admit 
her into the house for this purpose, she unwisely suggested as a 
passport the name of Captain Davenport. 

The prim servant now became inexorable. That name insured 
denial. 

“If you insist upon it,” pleaded Amy, humbly, “ I will wait in 
the cab at the door, till Mr. Ilargood arrives. But I assure you,” 
she continued, on reflecting how vexatious it would be if her first 
interview with this dreaded uncle occurred at the street door, — 
“ I assure you that I am one of Mr. Hargood’s nearest relations. 
I am persuaded he would not wish me to be kept here in the 
rain.” 


1G4 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


The woin.an liesitated. A relation of “ master’s” was sncli a 
novelty in that house, that it seemed as monstrous to close tlie 
door upon her, as upon some angel seeking hospitaliry in the 
olden time. After some moments’ dela}', slie sliowcd symptoms 
of mollification; ushered her up into the drawing-room, and left 
her to her reflections. 

Upon Amy, that square graceless room, rendered more than 
usually chilly and disheartening by the state of the weather, 
created a very different impression from the light in which it 
had been originally viewed by Davenport. It was the scene of 
her cousin’s love, — of her cousin’s courtship. What could Wind- 
sor Castle or Osborne, — the Escurial or Versailles, — Schonbrunii 
or the Alhambra, — exhibit to vie in interest with a spot so 
hivoured! Every syllable he had told her of his with 

the Ilargoods, — and she naturally supposed it to be a millionth 
part of what he had to tell, — was engraven in her mind ; and 
she sat trembling and tearful, with her eyes fixed upon the 
lieavy black door of the studio, — remembering with agony the 
scene he had so graphically described as concealed within ; — 
knowing that she was there, — her enemy, — the being who stood 
between her and perfect happiness: — that she had only to turn 
the handle of that door, and stand in Mary’s presence: — that she 
was equally entitled to rush upon her with words of reviling, as 
one by whom she had been made a wretch for life; or to steal 
lovingly to her side, as one in whose veins her owm blood was 
flowing. Cousin Mary! Mark Davenport’s bride! In which 
light did this favoured being possess most interest in the eyes of 
Amy Meadowes ? 

It was perhaps because still asking herself the question, that 
unbidden tears found their way between the slender fingers of 
the hand by which she was concealing her face. She fancied 
she could hear the slight rustling of a dross, in the chamber 
within. She almost fancied she could hear her breathe. Wliat 
would she have given to obtain a glimpse of her, unseen : the 
grave calm face described by Mark ; the intellectual ooiintenance, 
— the outward development of the elevated soul that inspired 
her character and conduct: a more tlian mother to her young 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


165 


Drotliers, — a more than daughter to the tyrant by whom she was 
held in durance, — a more than angel to the lover who was will- 
ing to become her slave in his turn. 

Creeping cringingly towards the studio door, her face clouded 
with tears, Amy was about to enter the presence of her cousin, 
cast herself at her feet, and appeal to her for affection and 
mercy, — when the opposite entrance suddenly admitted a 
stranger; a man, whose louring countenance and sable-silvered 
hair, seemed to announce Mr. Ilargood, even before lie accosted 
her in the authoritative tone announcing the master of the 
house. 

Her abject attitude as she approached the forbidden door, and 
the face bathed in tears she turned tow'ards him, prepared him 
for one of the scenes to which, as a professional critic, he was 
often exposed by candidates for public favour ; — some rising 
actress or poetess. 

Some virgin tragedy, some orphan Muse. 


But Amy no sooner found herself in presence of her uncle, than 
she recovered herself. Slie advanced towards him, if not boldly, 
with a frankly extended hand. 

“My business,” said she, in answer to his question, “is to 
claim your love and kindness. You do not know me, uncle. 
But I am Amy, — Amy Meadowes.” 

Already, Mr. Hargood, struck dumb by the familiarity of her 
address, was about to withdraw the hand which, in his first 
surprise, he had mechanically extended to meet her own : for ho 
now began to fancy he was dealing with a mad-woraan or an 
imposter. But Amy was too earnest to be discountenanced. 

“My mother sent me here, uncle,” she faltered; “my poor 
mother, your sister, now a widow; who, after seeking you for 
so many years, and grieving over you as dead, only discovered 
yesterday that you were alive, at no great distance. Judge 
what must be her happiness in the prospect of meeting her dear 
brother Edward, once more, in this world.” 

While she thus spoke, — tenderly — falteringly, femininely, — in 
the sweet tones which few people ever resisted, — something in 


166 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


her voice and manner so powerfully recalled to Ilargood’s mind 
the Mary of his yonth, the loved lost sister of Henstead Vicarage 
so long deplored, that, clasping her at once to his heart, he lifted 
np his voice and wept. The emotion of the strong man so new 
to such impulses, was terrible to witness. His frame was all 
but convulsed. His tears fell large and heavy, like the thunder- 
drops that precede a storm. 

For some minutes, not another word was spoken. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

When, by degrees, all was explained and some degree of com- 
posure restored, Ilargood’s joy was demonstrated in truly English 
fcishion, by an extraordinary expansion of hospitality. The wea- 
zened maid was scolded for not having lighted the fire; and in 
spite of Amy’s entreaties, refreshment was called; nay, even 
wine, — a rare indulgence in that wisely parsimonious household. 
The delighted uncle seemed as if he would have moved Heaven 
and earth to banquet this fair and loving niece. Like Schiller, 
in his lyric, ho wanted all the Immortals to crowd his terrestrial 
hall. 

The last presence which he seemed to miss, was that of his 
daughter. AVarmth and wine were wanted, but no Mary. It 
was not till some reference to “the keys” on the part of the 
weazened parlor maid reminded him of the omission, that he 
hurried into the studio, bidding^ his daughter come instantly 
forth and welcome her cousin Amy Meadowes. 

And now, once more, it was Cousin Amy’s turn to start and 
tremble. 

The lapse of a year, so important to them all, had been 
nowhere more productive of change than in the person of the 
poor neglected Mary. The stores of sensibility fermenting in 
her close-sealed heart, now imparted threefold expression to her 
fine features; and she had gained in height and contour, and 
consequently in grace. What a model for a Cassandra, a Sibyl, 
an Egerial Amy Meadowes could not disguise from herself, as 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


167 


her cousin slowly and scrutinisingly approached her, that she had 
never seen a finer form or more impressive countenance. 

Her father’s hurried explanations she met half way. Wliat 
appeared so strange to hbn^ seemed to her perfectly natural: for, 
fi-om the moment of that terrible scene at Captain Davenport’s 
lodgings, Mary liad been looking forward to active advances on 
the part of Lady Meadowes. 

Still, Mr. Ilargood — circumstantial in all his measures — srav fit 
to enter into the fullest particulars; and while so enlarging, and 
dwelling on the past, recurrence to the name of his once-loved 
sister caused a renewal of his former emotion. Again he clung, 
w’ceping and fondly, to the being so much resembling the Mary 
of “ poor old Ilcnstead.” 

The spectacle converted his daughter into stone. He had not 
wept so, even when her mother died! And what would she not 
have given, at times, for even the slightest indication of his pre- 
sent over- wrought sensibility, bestowed upon her brothers or 
lierself ! This stranger, this fair-faced Amy Meadowes — was she 
come to conquer in a moment the affection for which through 
life they had all labored in vain ? 

With a pang of jealousy, in short, quite as painful as that 
which was gnawing the heart of lier cousin, Mary Hargood 
advanced to offer her hand to the new comer. There was at 
that moment as much hatred between those two beautiful girls 
— those all but sisters — as might have been engendered by a 
Corsican Vendetta. 

It was a relief to both of them when Mr. Ilargood, about to 
quit the house with his niece and return with her to Battersea, 
signified in his usual lofty manner to Mary, that she was not to 
be of the party. Not directly, however; for it did not occur to 
iiim as possible that she could liave presumed to form such a pro- 
ject. He merely said when he took his hat to leave the house, 
“ I shall not bo at home till late. Do not w'ait dinner.” 

Ho would as soon have thought of offering an apology or 
explanation to his old leather-covered writing table, or his elbow 
chair, as to his taciturn daughter. 

She was not, however, fated to remain companionle.'^s during 
his absence. The weazened maid, whose mind was a little 


108 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


bewildered by a succession of remarkable events in that usually 
unincidental house, did not find it in her heart to ])ersist in 
denial when Captain Davenport, soon after llargood’s departure, 
applied for admittance. She even deigned to accompany liiin 
half-way up stairs and point out the door of the sitting room, 
where she believed her young lady — her neglected young lady — 
to l)e still lingering, after the departure of her guest. 

But no Mary was there. He found all in its usual order. 
More new books lying on the desk, to be cut, and cut up. More 
new engravings, craving for notice. More tickets in the card- 
rack for more exhibitions, shows, and theatres. The same pro- 
cess of mind mongery. Tlie same tare and tret of the intellec- 
tual market. 

lie naturally expected that notice would be given to Miss 
Hargood of his visit, and that she Avould soon make her appear- 
ance. It was not his intention to greet her as more than a friend. 
Marcus was, by this time, too well acquainted with tlie positive 
character of Hargood, to risk exasperating him by addresses to his 
child unsanctioned by his paternal authority. But lie wanted to 
see her again — only to see her. His eyes hungered and thirsted 
after that mournful but noble face. 

After waiting, with more patience than might have been ex- 
pected, for her arrival, he gently opened the door of the studio; 
that door on which poor Amy’s eyes had been so anxiously fixed. 
— But the wonted aspect, rendered so familiar to him by the 
sketch which never quitted him, no longer presented itself. The 
easel stood solitary. The artistic light streamed upon vacanc}’. 

Grievously disappointed, he advanced into the room. But 
Mary was not far distant. Coiled up into the wide window seat, 
she was weeping her very heart away\ No luxurious sofa pillows, 
in that frugal house, to conceal the face of a mourner ! She was 
resting her aching head against the closed window-shutter; think- 
ing, amidst her tears, how many comforts and alleviations were 
denied her; that, however hard to live, she must not — must not 
— die. She could not leave her mother’s sons to the rearing of 
so severe a taskmaster as her father! — 

That Mark Davenport hastened to evince his sympathy in her 
sorrow, cannot be doubted. But Mary was in no mood to bo 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


169 


comforted. The less amiable qualities of her nature were in 
ruffled activity. Having hastily dried her tears, and composed 
her countenance, she asked him 'why he came, and what lie was 
doing there, in opjwsition to her father’s wishes, as crudely as 
became the daughter of Edward Hargood, 

“I came,” said lie, (with a ready mendacity, for Avhich, Hea- 
ven his soul assoilzie !) tliinking to find Mr. Hargood. I was in 
hoj)cs that, as liaving been the means of reuniting him with his 
sister and niece, he would receive me back into fiivour,” 

1 1 was yew, then, who sent Amy Meadowes^hither ! I guessed 
it!” cried Mary, bitterly. 

*‘Your father received her, I trust, with kindness?” said he, 
in some alarm. 

‘^Ile received her,” murmured, or rather growled Mary Har- 
good, “ as though she were an angel from Heaven!” 

‘‘And so she ia,” said Marcus, with generous enthusiasm, so 
warmed Avas Ids heart by finding himself once more under tliat 
forbidden roof. “ Never was there a sAveeter creature ! She has 
not your genius. Miss Hargood, — she has not A'onr energy. But 
she is the most dutiful of daughters to an ever-ailing mother; and 
the kindest and most forgiving of human beings.” 

Propitiated by his praise, praise she could enjoy because she 
knew it to be just, — she invited him in a someAvliat more gra- 
cious tone to accompany her into the sitting-TOom. But Mark 
found himself best where hcAvas. On uncoiling herself from her 
recnmlient position at his entrance, Mary had sought the reading- 
chair usually occupied by her father ; Avhile her visitor uncere- 
moniously assumed the comfortless place she had quilted. At- 
tributing her swollen eyelids to emotion arising from her recen- 
afTecting intervieAv Avith her new cousin, he endeavoured to 
brighten her thoughts by reference to avocations ; — the pictures 
she had recently undertaken, — the Murillo in Avhose progress he 
had been so deeply interested. 

She answered him pettishly : fancying that he AA’-as soothing lier 
distemperature by pretended interest in her pursuits : — hoAv little, 
how little surmising the portion they had occupied in his thoughts 
since their last meeting! 

“ And the bird and dog, to which you introduced me last year,” 


170 


PROSKSSS AND PREJUDICJ:. 


said she, in her tnrn, ^vith a smile bordering on the ironical: ‘‘I 
suppose courtesy requires me to be as inquisitive as yourself — ” 

“Thanks,” he replied, — accepting all in good part. “The 
dog has been begged from me by a dear little sister of mine, who 
fancies herself fond of him for my sake. The bird, being of a 
more sociable nature than its master, fretted so sadly for coinpa- 
nionsliip during my absence, that I presented it to my friend 
Drewe.” 

Mary Hargood, acquainted only, through liis occasional vi.dts 
to her father, with the elder Drewe, — member of so many learn- 
ed societies, but of society, so useless a member, — smiled, and this 
time, in earnest, at the notion of a colloquy between the prosy 
old gentleman, and tlie flippant bird. 

“I was not aware,” said she, “that so learned a pundit as 
Mr. Wrougliton Drewe would condescend to ‘speak parrot.’ Bet- 
ter have given the bird to we. Captain Davenport ; to me, so 
often in need of a companion.” 

The melancholy intonation of other days was in her voice as 
she made this avowal. Marcus liked her better so, than wlieu 
caustic and bitter. He now noticed for the first time the extra- 
ordinary development which time had wrought in her appearance 
since last tliey met ; and could hardly refrain from telling her 
how beautiful lie thouglit her. 

To avoid the temptation, he rose and examined the iiainting on 
her easel. And there, too, improvement was delightfully percep- 
tible. It almost vexed him to thinkthatin the interval of absence 
he had acquired so little, and Hargood’s uncared-for daughter 
so wondrously much. 

A little moved by his enthusiasm — but far more so by a few 
judicious words of censure (which attested the worth of his 
eulogy as a flaw, the genuineness of a gem) — she opened her port- 
folio, and showed him hundreds of half-finished sketches, the 
recreation of her leisure hours. 

“ You must not mention this rubbish to my father,” said she, 
on perceiving hoAv eagerly he entered into the spirit of her works. 
“My father discountenances everything that leads to waste of 
time.” 

“He may be right,” replied Mark. “But in the grandest for- 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


171 


est, nature finds space between oak and oak for wild flowers and 
wild fruit, without impeding their growth.” 

He said nothing, however, of the exquisite pleasure it afforded 
him to know he was the only person to whom these sporting? of 
her fancy had been exhibited. He was glad that not even her 
father had sullied tlie bloom of their freshness. There were jot- 
tings of Egyptian scenery ; dim reminiscences of his own. There 
were designs after Shakspeare, Dante, Goethe ; and more than 
one humorous sketch of the notabilities who frequented her 
father’s tea-table; among others, of Wronghton Drewe, in the 
character of an owl, endeavouring to decipher through a huge 
eye-glass the hieroglyphics inscribed on the Eosetta stone ; the 
likeness being of so speaking a nature as to elicit peals of laughter 
from Marcus. 

“ And who are these ?” said he, on turning to a page on which 
a couple of rough-looking lads were delineated in every possible 
posture and pastime ; reading, writing, boxing, playing at ducks 
and drakes. 

“ The two beings dearest to me on earth,” she replied. “ My 
own two scrubby school-boy brothers, Ned and Frank ; whom I 
must cherish more than ever, now that my father’s affections are 
likely to be largely diverted from them, by the postulants for his 
love with which you have supplied us. But we are forgetting,” 
said she, taking the volume from his hand and closing it, “tliat 
my time is not my own. We have idled enough for to-day. Cap- 
tain Davenport. Thank you for having cheered me into better 
spirits. But I must now to work, Avith Avhat appetite I may. I 
have only six days remaining to finish this copy of the Aurora ; 
and of those one perhaps must be devoted to the claims of my fa- 
ther’s newly-found relations.” 

Before Mark had time for remonstrance, the bell Avas gently 
rung by Mary, and he found himself forced to perform his part- 
ing salutations in presence of the Aveazened maid. 


172 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

A FAMILY recently deprived of its head and ruler, is sure to 
present curious anomalies. Between respect for the dead and 
respect for the living, a straight course is not always attainable. 
A too sudden reform of established abuses conveys reproach to 
your predecessor ; a too patient tolerance implies approval. 

The kindly heart of the new Lord Davenport might .perhaps 
have fallen into the latter error, but for the vigorous counsels of 
Mark. 

“Whatever you mean to reform, reform at once,” said he, on 
the week succeeding the funeral at Ilford. “At this moment, 
your people are prepared for a change. Don’t give them leisure 
to fall back into their old habits. Strike your coup-d^kat and 
have done with it.” 

Already, therefore, contracts had been entered into for the con- 
struction of a hamlet, to which a suitable allotment of ground was 
apportioned ; to supply habitations for the families about to bo 
ejected from the houses in Quag Lane, so long an eye-sore to 
Marcus, and now condemned to demolition. Several of the lar- 
ger farms on the domain were to be divided, on the falling in of 
the present leases; and a large enclosure and drainage of heath- 
land for future plantation, was to afibrd work and winter wages 
for the labouring poor. 

Within the walls of Ilford Castle no need to operate a change. 
Tiie relief, spontaneously though unavowedly experienced by all 
its inmates, was as if an iron cincture were removed from every 
heart. Every one now breathed freely. 

Poor old Madame Winkelried, relieved from her functions as 
governess, remained attached to the family at her own entreaty, 
though her future independence was secured ; that when lier 
pupil was sick, or her patroness sorry, or any one wanted com- 
forting or nursing in the household, her services might be at 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE, 


173 


hand. But Olivia and her mother, now for the first time admitted 
to unrestrained intercourse, found in each otlier’s society a degree 
of comfort and confidence which perhaps no ljuman affection so 
intimately engenders as the love betw'een mother and daughters. 

So peaceful in mind was the widowed Lady Davenport in 
Ilford Castle, where no discontented looks or knitted brows were 
longer perceptible, that she* would have been content to abide 
there for ever — the world forgetting, by the world forgot — but 
that she felt the destinies of her children to be as yet imperfectly 
accomplished. London, the grand exchange for the negotiations 
of worldly interests, must be again visited. Since her sons were 
now in Parliament, both, at the opening of the Session, must 
repair to town ; where they would probably settle in life, as their 
liberal fortune entitled them. Domestic happiness, she tmsted, 
was in store for tliem, to moderate the turbulent nature of the 
younger brother, and animate the indolence of the elder. 

But it was for the sake of Olivia, she bad chiefly made up her 
mind to resume for a time her place in London society, as soon 
as the solemnity of her position as Lord Davenport’s widow gave 
place to the influence of her maternal duties. In spite of what 
liad broken from the lips of Marcus, in that fatal scene to which 
neither lierself nor her son had ever found courage to revert, she 
felt convinced that her daughter was the magnet by which the 
once supercilious son of the Eustaces had been attracted to their 
untashionable house. Mr. Eustace had been the friend and asso- 
ciate of Hugh; but his admiration of Olivia was unquestionably 
the ruling influence. 

She could desire nothing better for her daughter than such a 
marriage. Dismissing from her mind all she had heard to the 
disparagement of William Eustace — for what human being en- 
dowed with advantages of lirth and fortune, is not the chartered 
victim of detraction ? — she saw in him only what was pleasing 
and estimable ; good breeding and good looks that were pleasing 
— good feelings and good principles that were estimable. And 
thus convinced of his rectitude of iiiind, the worldly position 
which she would have otherwise disregarded, was not without 
its charm. 

There was nothing in Mr. Eustace’s personal standing to dete- . 


174 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


riorate liis consequence as heir in tail to a landed estate of ten 
thousand a year and a baronetcy of the seventeenth century ; 
■with the inestimable advantage of somewhat more tlian a couple 
of thousands per annum in eujoyment. It was in fact, this liberal 
provision which had enabled William Eustace, in defiance of 
parental thunder, to offer to Amy Meadowes the hand she had so 
injudiciously rejected. 

“ If Olivia were oiil}’- to take a fancy to him,” was Lady Daven- 
port’s remme of the case, “I know no one with whom I consider 
my darling child more likely to be happy. As regards Im feel- 
ings, I am convinced that all is right.” 

To the flighty assertion made by Marcus of his attachment to 
her niece, she assigned little importance ; for Marcus was neither 
a careful observer nor an accurate historian. Just as unscrupu- 
lously as he mystified their country neighbor, Sir -Gardner Dal- 
maine, with tales of insurrections in Iceland, or the discovery of 
a dodo’s nest on Salisbury Plain, would he have declared his 
brother to be in love with Madame Tussaud, or reported Lady 
Louisa Eustace to have become a Mormon, had the fancy of the 
moment dictated the flighty assertion. 

Of that dear unknown niece, however, both Lady Davenport 
and Olivia were beginning to think and speak with the utmost 
interest. Her beauty and diffidence had been described by Mark 
in glowing colors ; and it was settled in the family that, on arri- 
ving in town in January, their first visit should be to Lady 
Meadowes. Meanwhile, it was no secret that lier sons were 
about to take the initiative during their present hurried sojourn 
in town ; and as Olivia and her mother pursued their walks be- 
side the lake, or drove through the rocky defiles interspersed 
among the green dales of Ilford, they often indulged in surmises 
concerning the welcome likely to be afforded to Lord Davenport 
and liis brother by the hardly-used widow of poor Sir Mark. 

Little dreamed they how much more occiqned, just then, was 
the mind of Lady Meadowes by her unhoped-for reconciliation 
with her brother ! The first meeting between them, indeed, had 
excited emotions productive of more pain than ideasure; for 
each measured the duration of their enstrangement rather by 
those whom they had lost, than by the years of tlieir lives. The 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE, 


175 


husband of the one, the wife of the other, had in the interim 
lived, and loved, and vanished, as flowers liad sprung up and 
withered. There seemed to exist a chasm between their hearts 
which nothing now could fill up, to enable them to meet on level 
ground. It was not the premature wrinkles stamped on the brow' 
of the invalid; it was not the silver hairs interspersed among the 
massive dark locks of her brother which served to record the lapse 
of time. There 'were scars uj-^on the liear ts of both, of which their 
faces exhibited a sad reflection. Hargood saw the beautiful girl of 
Ilenstead Vicarage transformed into a careworn matron ; Lady 
Meadowes beheld the handsome, sportive, ardent Edward changed 
into a grave, stern- visaged, middle-aged, necessitous-looking man. 
Neither, alas ! liad escaped uii-wounded from the Battle of Life. 

"When they spoke, however, the tones of their voices possessed 
a mutual charm. There, they recognised each otiier; and before 
they had talked an hour together, “ with open hearts, affectionate 
and true,” they were Mary and Edward again. Intervening 
obstacles, intervening injuries had disappeared ; and but for their 
living children as w’-itnesses of the fact, it was difficult to believe 
that half a life had divided them from each otlier. 

Tliis state of reciprocal feeling afi:brded heartfelt gratification 
to Amy; for she foresaw in it a mine of happiness for her 
mother. And it was also a relief to find that, absorbed in her 
brother’s presence, Lady Meado’wes took little heed of her sad- 
dened looks. It was doubtless only natural she should retire to 
Iier chamber, leaving their conference undisturbed. But the 
tears of solitary anguish she "was shedding might have lasted the 
day long 'ftdthout exciting notice or .symi)ath3', but that, at the 
hour of their horneh^ dinner, which Hargood had consented to 
share, it "W'as necessary she should make lier appearance. Those 
meals — those meals 1 To what subordination do they reduce the 
most critical interests of life! 

On rejoining, with a face as serene as slie could assume, her 
mother and uncle, she found them seated side by side — the past 
forgiven — the future unthought of; loving, confiding, gracious ; 
nothing more, she fancied could be desired to perfect their re- 
union. Her father hud never looked more tenderly upon his 
wife, tJian Hargood on his sister. All his former pride in her 


17G 


PROGRESS ANI> PREJUPICB. 


■was renewed ; all his early love revived^ like flowers emerging 
from the soil, at the toucli of May. 

It was late in the day, when Captain Davenport joined the par- 
ty. Marcus entered the room with some degree of confusion, 
arising from remorse of conscience at his invasion of Ilargood’s 
castle during’ his absence ; or from disagreeable reminiscences oi 
the attitude in which they had last parted. But his embarrass- 
ment was of short duration. Ere a word was uttered on either 
side, Hargood started up and grasped his hands with the in()>t 
friendly -welcome. The recital in which Lady Mcadowes had 
been indulging of her nephew’s devoted kindness to her, and ot 
the affectionate overtures alread}’ made by bis mother, had s<fft- 
eiied Ilargood’s feelings towards all possible Davenports, — Mar- 
cus among the rest. 

‘‘ I -was hasty,’’’ he said in an abrupt allusion to what had for- 
merly passed between them. “Forgive me. Let by-gones be 
by-gones. AVe are all upon velvet, no\y.” 

Poor Amy, whose heart had fallen below freezing point on the 
entrance of her cousin, felt it growing colder and colder as she 
listened to their expressions of mutual regard ; evidently })recni-- 
sive of their future relative position as father and son. It want- 
ed only Mary to complete the family cii*cle : — the family circle, 
from which she might as well be excluded at once, for any inter- 
est that any one of them seemed to take in her existence. All 
three were far two much occupied wffth each other to tlnnk of 
Amy. Marcus, full of the studio he bad quitted an hour before, 
sainted her with the careless gaiety lie miglit have bestowed on 
his terrier or his bird I 

“ Did not Miss llargood accompany you here to>-day ?” said he, 
addressing her father ; in pursuance of the abominable bypoerisy 
he had been practising so successfully else'where. 

“No ! But I must bring or send her here to-morroiv, my 
sister tells me,’^’ replied Hargood. 

“AA'ithout fail, dear Ed-ward. I long to embrace mv 
niece.” 

“ You have a nephe-w too. Lady Meadowes, who hopes to 
make your acquaintance to-morrow,’” rejoined Mark, — having 
thus adroitly obtained the information he wanted. “ My bro- 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


177 


thei* Hugh craves leave to deliver to you a letter from my 
mother.” 

“ What 1 the pearl of brothers, of whom you used to be so 
proud ?” inquired Ilargood cheerfully. 

And of whom I am prouder than ever. I trust, Hargood, 
you will allow me to present him to you ?” 

‘‘It does not need, iny dear Sir,” he replied. “ I have already 
made Lord Davenport’s acquaintance. He was on a committee, 
last spring, before which I had to be examined, toucliing the 
state of the pictures in the National Gallery ; and I can scarcely 
tell you whether I was more struck by his extensive information 
on matters of Art, or prepossessed by his manners.” 

“ You forgave in him^ then, the name of Davenport which you 
visited so heavily on me P' said Marcus, laughing. “ But I don’t 
wonder. The man who could cherish a malicious feeling against 
Ilugli, would tar and feather a child. - Amy, dearest, — why are 
you sitting out yonder by the window? Why so still and silent, 
when we are all so happy?” 

“ Only still, because I am listening,” she gently replied. 

“ So hoarse, too ! I’m afraid you have caught cold. That 
long walk, yesterday, was too much for you !” 

“ She said so herself, poor child, on her return,” interposed 
Lady Meadowes, “ and then she was forced to go out this morn- 
ing ill the rain.” 

“ I hope she is not delicate ?” inquired Hargood, with as re- 
prehensive an air as though he had inquired whether she were 
addicted to shop lifting. 

“ Not very strong. But she had better go to bed and take 
care of her cold, that she may be able to devote the whole of to- 
morrow to her cousin.” 

“ Ah, go to bed, dear Amy!” rejoined Mark, humanely. ‘‘ A 
little gruel and a great deal of sleep, will bring you all right 
again. Good night, dear little coz!” said he, holding open the 
door for her to pass, after her hurried salutations to her mother 
and uncle. “ We must not have you ill. Think, — think what a 
happy day we have before us to-morrow!” 


8 * 


178 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


CEAPTER xxnr. 

Next morning, greatly to his inconvenience, but punctual as 
a chronometer, Hargood conveyed his daughter to the old gar- 
den-house, — where, having ascertained that his niece was dis- 
abled by a severe cold, he left her with injunctions to devote her- 
self for the day to her aunt ; as peremptorily delivered as those 
he had previously issued that, in her best attire, she should be 
ready at noon to accompany him on his visit to Lady Meadowes. 

The best attire of Mary Hargood consisted, as aforetime, of a 
black silk gown of the simplest form : her dress alternating be- 
tween the costume of a sceur grise or smn‘ noire^ for her w'ork- 
day or Sabbath costume. But there was an ornament of nature’s 
bestowing, which imparted grace and even dignity to both : — 
the profusion, namely, of rich black hair which, crowning her 
head in a thick braid, became a diadem ; or falling over her 
shoulders, was in itself almost a garment. It was in the former 
guise that, when her bonnet was removed, she presented herself 
to Lady Meadowes ; who, accustomed to Amy’s light brown hair 
and girlish features, was startled by the lofty cliaracter of lier 
beauty. There was, in fact, nothing of the “ girl” in Mary Har- 
good. She had never been young. 'When a child, she was a 
mother to the boys ; as through life, her father's slave. 

The aunt who had once borne her name, was not the less pre- 
pared to cherish the noble-looking being of whom her brother 
had spoken, if not in the words of tenderness she was wont to 
lavish upon Amy, in terms of esteem more commonly bestowed 
on persons of twice her age ; as Lord Russell might have spoken 
of his Rachel, or More of his Margaret. Strange did it seem to 
her, when Hargood under the pressure of his professional avoca- 
tions had returned by omnibus to town, to find herself alone 
with a young companion as diflterent from her Amy as night from 
day ; still more so when, by degrees, the young girl, won to con- 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


lYO 

fidence by Lady Meadowes’ kind and attaching manners, drew 
nearer and nearer, and was led by her inquiries to talk of her 
mother and brothers ; the dear mother she had lost — the brothers 
who were all but lost to her. Tears moistened her slumbrous 
dark eyes when thus kindly questioned. She was not used to 
sympathy. It almost pained her torpid heart; like the pang we 
experience on the first renewal of sensation in a frozen limb. 

We do indeed lead a cheerless and isolated life,” she replied 
toiler aunt’s interrogations. “My father’s time is too deeply 
engaged to atford leisure for society, or the cultivation of new 
impressions. He is afraid of distracting my attention, or his 
own, from pursuits Avitli which we cannot afford to trifle.” 

“ Still, dear Mary, occasional relaxation is indispensable.” 

“ My father thinks otherwise. He fancies that glimpses of tho 
land of Canaan only deepen the darkness of tlie laud of Egypt.” 

“In future, my dear girl, this house will afford you some little 
change — though smaller and probably far less provided with 
means of eutertainmeiit than our OAvn — ” 

“ Did I not describe our own as tlie House of Bondage?” an- 
swered Mary, with a melancholy smile. “ And here, dear aunt, 
I feel already half enfranchised. This air seems easier to 
breathe : and though yew, accustomed to extensive landscapes, 
probably despise the view from your Avindow over yonder 
orchards, to me they are country : — something, at least, of 
nature’s creating, in place of soot-stained houses, and staring 
AvindoAVs.” 

Slie spoke Avith animation ; for it Avas not often she obtained 
a sympathising ear. It Avas pleasant, indeed, to talk of the tAVo 
absent boys she loved so dearly ; and Avhom her father seemed 
to consider only like the rags throAvn into a paper-mill — valueless 
till they finally emerge from its complex machinery, in the form 
of glossy crearn-laid. Lady Meadowes encouraged her to talk of 
their looks and disposition — tlie quaint originality of Ned — the 
affectionate simple nature of little Frank. 

“Frank — after my grandfather, I belie a'C,” added she, hoping 
to recommend the child to the kindness of her grandfather’s 
daughter. 

While still absorbed in these family details— seated upon the 


ISO 


PROGRESS AND FUEjrUICR. 


same cushion hy tlie sofa-side habitually occupied by Amy — the 
door was quietly opened by Marlow, with the announcement of 

a gentleman.” 

And a gentleman, decidedly, was the visitor who closely fol- 
lowed her into the room. But she might quite as well have an- 
nounced him as “ a stranger for neitlier Lady Meadowes nor 
her niece had ever seen him before. 

“■You must allow me to make myself known to you as your 
nephew Hugh,” said he, approacliir/g the sofa from which the 
invalid was making a languid effort to rise ; “and for a nephew, 
you will not surely disturb yourself!” he continued, addressing 
Lady Meadowes, and pressing the hand already extended to wel- 
come him. “ Lest you should misdoubt me as an impostor, dear 
Lady Meadowes, I lose no time in presenting my credentials, as 
envoy from my mother.” 

The letter placed in her hands, addressed in the once familiar 
writing of the once dear Gertrude Meadowes, brought an instant 
flush of pleasure to her cheek. But it faded as it came. Her 
head was dizzy from emotion. 

Lord Davenport stood Avatching her Avith an embarrassed air [ 
but when, endeavoring to recover herself, and relieve his awk- 
Avardness, she said in a scarcely articulate voice, Avhile the letter 
still trembled in her baud — “ Yon are most Avelcorne. Pray sit 
down. Let me introduce you to — ” 

“Thanks, thanks! don’t thing of me just noAA*.” interrupted 
Lord Davenport, taking the nearest chair, after courteously shak- 
ing hands Avith Mary. “Mo introduction is necessary. Pray 
read your letter. My brother Mark has so often talked to me of 
yon,” he added, addressing Miss Ilargood, “ that I feel as if avo 
Avere already AV’ell acquainted.” 

“ I understood from him that he Avas coming here this morn- 
ing,” observed Mary, humanised at once by his graceful ease of 
manner — the charm of high breeding being as yet as little knoAvn 
to her as the lustre of brocade, or glitter of diamonds. 

“ It was a great disappointment to Marcus to be prevented 
accompanying me, as he promised,” replied Hugh. “ Just as we 
were starting, he Avas summoned by a lawyer’s letter, to make an 
afiSdavit before the Accountant General ; essential to the inter- 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


181 ' 


ests of the widow and orphan of a brotlier officer, killed hj his 
side in one of his Indian campaigns.” 

“ A paramount dut}',” rejoined Mary. “ A claim lie could not 
compromise.” 

“ AYas he to have given you a draAving-lesson to-day?” inquired 
Lord Davenport, with an air of interest. “ I assure you ho 
often vexes his other pupil, my sister Olivia, by taunting her 
witli an account of your superior progress.” 

Mary llargood, conscious of the parity of proficiency betAveen 
herself and Captain Davenport, Avas not a little amused at the 
idea of his having represented himself as her master ; and the 
momentary smile Avhich, like summer lightning, brightened her 
countenance, imparted to it the only cliarin in Avhich it was de- 
ficient. ]Yo Avonder Lord Davenport thought he had never seen 
so beautiful a face. 

“ My father informed me,” said she, “ that if you cannot say, 
liko your brother, 'av^^h'io son j)ittore^'‘ you have devoted much 
time and thought to the interests of the art.” 

Lord Davenport looked exceedingly bcAvildered. IIoav his late 
uncle should ever have become cognizant of the nature of his 
studies, or how a mere fox-hunter like Sir Mark should have 
acquired any information concerning arts of a higher order than 
regarded the sporting jirints of Fores and Ackermann, puzzled 
him extremely. At length. Lady MeadoAves, after a second 
perusal of the fcAv aftectionate lines addressed to her by her once- 
loved Gertrude, resumed sufficient self-possession to perceive that 
her companions Avere at cross purposes. 

“ You are mistaking my niece Mary llargood for her cousin 
Amy, Avho keeps her room to-day in consequence of a severe 
cold,” said she, cheerfully. “Another time, I hope you Avill 
make acquaintance Avith my daughter.” 

“ I have only my oAvn stupidity to blame,” replied Lord Daven- 
port, a little embarrassed by the familiarity he had' unduly 
assumed. “I ought to have known that the auburn curls and 
hazel eyes described by Mark to my mother, as the counterpart 
of Olivia’s, could not have been so suddenly converted into Miss 
Hargood’s raven braids. I am grieved, hoAvever, to learn that 


♦ 182 


PROGKESS AND PREJUDICE. 


Amy is indisposed. For I may not for ages enjoy another oppor- 
tunity of seeing her. To-morrow, I am forced to leave town 
again, on my return to Ilford Castle.” 

“For ‘ages,’ if I am to believe Lady Davenport’s letter, we 
are to read, ‘ till the month of January,’ ” said Lady Meadowcs, 
with a cordial smile. “ To me, however, the time will indeed 
seem long ; so anxious am I to take dear Ger — Lady Davenport,” 
she added, checking herself, — “once more by the liand. But 
you, between shooting and fox-hunting, will find little idle time.” 

“ Very little — if you knew what a multiplicity of work the 
Ilford estate has brought on my hands,” he replied. “But you 
mistake me, dear aunt — I am no fox-hunter ; nor much of a 
sportsman in any way. Marcus has always been the Kimrod of 
the family.” 

“ True, true,” rejoined Lady MeadoAves, — with a sigh, as she 
refiected hoAv much, in manliness of pursuit as in name and 
feature, he resembled her beloved husband : — while Marj*, Avhoso 
cockney prejudices connected something of the rat-catcher with 
the idea of a thorough-going sportsman, conceded all the greater 
interest to Lord Davenport’s expressive countenance, already 
familiar to her in his brother’s sketch book, on finding him no 
votary of the stable or kennel. She longed to question him 
concerning his occupations. But since she found that his i)re- 
vious sociability originated in the belief of consanguinity between 
them, she felt scarcely privileged to address him again. 

Lord Davenport, on the other hand, would have found it difli- 
cult to renew his conversation with the beautiful girl whom he 
still kept furtively watching, and noting as a living impersona- 
tion of Sir Joshua Keynohl’s picture of St. Cecilia ; — for to her 
tastes and pursuits he possessed not the slightest indication. 
AVhilc rambling Avith him among the mountain passes of the 
north, Mark had talked to him for hours of Amy Meadowes, — 
of her sAveetness, and daisy-like prettiness, and endearing naivete 
of nature. But touching a certain studio, and a certain Muse, 
converted by her selfish father into a domestic drudge, as the 
Mexicans used to frame their vilest household implements of 
virgin gold, ho had been cautiously mute. lie had in fact 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


183 


endeavored, by a lapwing-cry of pretended enthusiasm for Amy, 
to mislead his brother from his nest. How therefore was Lord 
Davenport to accost this unknown cousin of his cousin? 

Lady Meadowes soon relieved his embarrassment by taking 
the conversation into her own hands. Often as she had ques- 
tioned Mark concerning the inmates of Ilford Castle, endless 
inquiries suggested themselves respecting Lady Davenport and 
her daughter. Nor were they half brought to a close, when 
Hugh, whose diffidence of nature was apt to make him fancy 
himself an intruder, decided that he ought to hasten his depart- 
ure, as tliey must wish to be in attendance on his cousin Amy. 
Having secured a promise from Lady Meadowes that she would 
lose no time in acknowledging his mother’s letter, he took leave 
of the old garden house, little accustomed to the presence of 
guests so distinguished ; so little, indeed, that, on espying from 
her latticed window the coronet on the blinkers of his lordship’s 
cab-horse, Mrs. Margams scarcely refrained from rushing forth 
and offering him a posy composed of Michaelmas daisies and 
si)rigs of winter savory. 

“ Neither so handsome nor so brilliant as our dear Mark,” was 
Lady Meadowe’s commentary, after his exit: “ but apparently a 
most amiable young man !” 

To which Mary, who was already projecting a study of his 
graceful head for that of the Beloved Disciple, had scarcely pa- 
tience to answer. As it was clear, hoAvever, that Lady Mea- 
dowes, like Antony, paused for a reply, she at length rejoined — 
“ Less showy ^ perhaps, than Captain Davenport ; but I suspect, ' 
infinitely more elevated in mind and humane in nature.” 


CHAPTER XNIV. 

It is not to be supposed tliat while Lady Davenport and Lady 
Meadowes were thus profoundly interested in the prospects of 
their children, the patriarch of Horndean Court and the casuistic 
Lady Louisa were regardless of the laurels sprouting round tlie 
brows of their son and heir. 

Lady Harriet had never acquainted her sister with his ignom- 


184 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


inious rejection at the liancb of Miss Meadowes, which, in the 
paroxysm of his disappointment he had confided to her; — though 
almost might she as well have made a clean breast of the secret, 
since tljeir utmost stretch of credulity would never have accom- 
plished faith in the story. And as from that moment, the name of 
Amy had never escaped the lips of William Eustace, they conclnd- 
ed that their arguments liad prevailed, and that their family tree 
Ijad been preserved from pollution. 

Still, when they found him so changed in temper and pursuits, 
they began to fear that love or the typhus fever, miglit have be- 
queathed to his constitution the germ of some other disea>e. 

Sir Henry, the more uneasy of the two, often ejaculated in 
private to the mortified Lady Louisa, that Heaven above only 
knew how it would end ; that he w’as jeered by his demi-semi- 
quavering old chums at Arthur’s for the profligate Radicalism 
of his son; and that Mr. Dundeput, the family apothecary, assured 
him that many highly respectable people among his patients 
were of opinion that the safety of tlie country might be seriously 
compromised if such Jacobinical principles as those of Mr. Eus- 
tace were suffered to spread. The poor old gentleman was get- 
ting quite thin on the strength of it. 

When they returned to Horndean Court, at the close of a Ses- 
sion throughout which, for the first time in his life, the rash 
frenzy of his paternal and political curiosity induced him to snatch 
unaired the Times newspaper every morning, steaming from the 
press, and run his eye over the leading articles to ascertain 
whether his patronymic were held up to shame, — Lady Louisa 
found her usual resource from his peevishness in the school-room : 
where she instructed tlie governess, tutored the provincial mas- 
ters, and kept the poor girls strictly to their backboards. 

Sir Henry, however, remained true to his indignation against 
his son. It would have been like Lady Townshend’s rabbits 
quarrelling for the Holkhara blade of grass, had both parents en- 
deavoured to find food for their fidgetiness in an over-strenuous 
education of their daughters : — and the poor little baronet was 
content to worry himself with wondering what could have be- 
come of Mr. Eustace ; who was neither up to his knees in heather 
on the moors, nor up to his chin in tepid water, at the German 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


185 


baths ; nor attempting the nautical in the still waters of the 
Solent, nor j)rosing at Mechanics’ Institutes, nor doing anything 
tliat may become a man whose pastimes still savour of tlie boy. 

Had Sir Henry Eustace, instead of gazing mopingly through 
the small panes of his narrow windows at Horndean Court, been 
just then an inmate of one of tliose pleasant and popular country- 
houses where the chosen sportsmen of the 'beau monde succeeded 
by direct inheritance to the stubble fields vacated by the Michael- 
mas geese, he might liave learned tljat Billy Eustace had hired a 
place in Gloucestershire, and was assiduously devoting himself to 
hard study. This place, by the way, was none other than Mea- 
dowes Court. 

We will now return to the time-crazed old garden house with 
pointed gables, where Amy Meadowes was' weeping her girlish 
tears ; — ^precious as the “med’cinable gums” that flow from some 
tree in Araby the Blest — because indicative of its balsamic nature. 

“ You are pleased, dearest mother, with your new niece ?” said 
she, approaching Lady Meadowes, when later in the evening, 
she rose ; and, as they were now alone together, there was no 
further motive hu* reserve. 

“ Much pleased,” replied Lady Meadowes. “ No one who 
looks at Mary Hargood can deny the loveliness of her person ; 
no one who listens to her, the superiority of her talents.” 

“ She is indeed beautiful — most beautiful !” rejoined Amy, with 
a heavy sigh. 

“ My brother has great reason to be proud of her,” resumed 
Lady Meadowes. “ But as regards my own prepossessions, Mary 
is a person whom I would far rather possess as a niece than as a 
daughter.” 

“ Thank you for that^ mother,” said Amy, sighing more deeply 
than before. 

“ It is perhaps because accustomed to a gentle manner and a 
more loving heart, that I am so fastidious,” resumed Lady Meti- 
dows ; “ but Mary’s self-assertion depresses me. The strict sub- 
ordination maintained by my brother seems to have had the 
effect of enfranchising her opinions to a degree alarming at her 
age. Forbidden to act for herself, she thinks for herself more, I 
fear, than is good for her.” 


18G 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


“ It was, perhaps, that very independence of mind that attracted 
Ijiiii!” mused Amy, aloud. 

“ Attracted whom^ my dear ?” 

“ My cousin Mark. Has not Miss IJargood informed you 
that — ” 

“ liTot Miss Hargood, darling ; — Mary /” 

“ Has not Mary, then, informed you that she is about to become 
doubly your niece ?” 

Lady Meadowes kissed her daughter’s cheek with a smile 
implying compassion for her girlish jealousy. 

“ Not exactly, Amy. On that point, she probably knew me 
to be better informed.” 

“What information can be better than the express avowal of 
Mark?” 

“ His atowal 

“ My cousin himself apprised me of his attachment.” 

“ To Mary Hargood. No, no!” cried Lady Meadowes, chang- 
ing color and countenance. 

“ And that the dearest object of his life was to make her his 
wife,” added Amy, with a degree of exactness not to be mis- 
taken. 

For some minutes Lady Meadowes remained silent as death. 
Unconsciously her arm extended itself round the waist of poor 
Amy, whose tears were now falling unrestrainedly. Poor girl ! 
Poor darling child ! Her fatigue of the day before — her sudden 
indisposition — were now explained. 

“ You, mother, will, I know, bear with me,” whispered Amy, 
“ if I experience a little sorrow and mortification at discovering 
that we are not first ^objects with one who has so long seemed 
to make us so; nay, that so far from being his first objects, ho 
has frankly owned to me that — ” 

It was hard to complete the purposed avowal ! While resting 
her head on her mother’s shoulder, she was forced to take breath 
for the effort. 

“ He has owned to you, darling ?” inquired Lady Meadowes, 
in an encouraging voice. 

“ That he sought us out, at first, not as the nearest relations of 
his mother — but of Mary Hargood!” — 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


187 


“ From first to last, then, his conduct has been as false as 
cruel !” was the indignant rejoinder. 

“ Not intentionally. But he seems to have thought only of 
'her. You know his impetuous nature ; all impulse — all energy — ” 

“ All selfishness, Amy. He has thought only of himself. But 
how strange — how more than strange — that a son of Lord 
Davenport — of the man by whose animosity my whole life has 
been embittered — should so little inherit his prejudices as thus 
to ally himself with a family so contemptuously spurned by his 
father!” 

“Marcus is a person thoroughly independent in mind and 
conduct.” 

“ Which makes me doubt their being happy together. For 
Mary appears to be as opinionated as himself. Already, though 
you assure me they are engaged, she judges him with the most 
impartial severity. So far from reciprocating his love, I should 
say that she almost disliked him.” 

“You really think so, mother?” said Amy, a ray of hope 
brightening her face. 

“ She spoke of him this morning so harshly, that I was hurt 
and offended.” 

“ May she not have wished to conceal her real feelings towards 
him ?” 

“ Concealment is not in her nature. Never was human being 
more thoroughly ingenious.” 

“ I may perhaps come to like her better on acquaintance, dear 
mamma,” said Amy, with a sigh a trifle less heavy than that 
which accompanied the commencement of her confidences. 
“After all, it is not Mary’s fault, if my wllnt of experience and 
knowledge of tlie w'orld should have induced me to assign to 
Mark’s attentions a stronger preference than cousinly good-will. 
Still, he certainly seemed convinced of Mary’s attachment.” 

“ Because he is as vain as selfish,” replied Lady Meadowes, 
who was rapidly acquiring strange impartiality towards the 
virtues of her nephew. “But the wdiole aftair is a mystery — 
a mystery I must lose no time in clearing up. To-morrow, I am 
to see my brother again.” 

“ Not a word to however, darling mother, till we have 


188 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


Marcus’s permission to speak out. If you think my uncle is not 
as yet in the secret, it might seriously injure my cousin’s cause 
to have it prematui'ely disclosed.” 

Lady Meadowes imprinted a fervent kiss on the cheek of her 
generous child; amid her own disappointments, ever careful of 
- the happiness of others. 

“And Hugh, dear mother. You have told me nothing about 
Hugh. Is he likely, do you think, to approve his brother’s 
choice?” 

“I saw little of Lord Davenport — I was occupied with his 
mother’s letter. To own the truth, I fear he interested me only* 
as the brother of Mark. When I found him so unlike, I looked 
no further. But I cannot help fearing — ” 

It was perhaps as well tiiat she was prevented confiding to 
Amy the nature of her apprehensions, by the bustling entrance 
of Marlow; who persisted in administering to Miss Meadowes’ 
cold as assiduously, as though her reddened eyes and husky v<nce 
were really the result of the influenza. 

“ Her ladies” were hurried angrily to bed. 

If the officious zeal of the waiting-maid could only have 
secured rest to their pillows ! 


CHAPTER XXV. 

With his mind still agitated by his affecting interview with 
his sister, Hargood was startled by a note from Captain Daven- 
port, requesting an audience for the following morning : — “ A 
private audience for tJie discussion of business of importance ;” 
not commencing “ My dear Hargood,” as of old, wlien offering 
an opera ticket, or proposing an excursion to the Dulwich Gal- 
lery ; — but filially and respectfully, “ My dear Sir.” 

That he wanted to discuss the affairs of Lady Meadowes, prob- 
ably to inquire in what manner the pecuniary aid of tlie Daven- 
port family could be most delicately and effectively afforded, 
seemed a matter of course ; and Hargood consequently set aside 
his customary avocations, and appointed an early hour for the 
visit. It even occurred to him that Captain Davenport might be 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


189 


desirous of soliciting, tbrougli his good offices, the hand of his 
niece. Without positively asserting the existence of an attach- 
ment between the young people. Lady Meadowes had talked of 
Marcus far more as her son-in-law than as her nephew ; and as 
Hargood cut the pages of a new review, while waiting his arri- 
val, he kept smiling to himself at the notion of the futility of 
human prejudices : — Lord Davenport scarcely cold in his grave ; 
and his son already renewing the forfeiture of caste, which, fv»r 
forty years, the old lord had resented with the utmost rigour of 
his narrow mind; 

lie accordingly received his guest with a degree of cordiality 
foreign to his nature. Lady Meadowes’s account of Marcus’s 
kindness had touched his heart. On noticing tlie flush which 
animated the young man’s cheek, and the emotion which some- 
what impeded his utterance, Hargood congratulated himself, as 
we are wont to do when we most deceive ourselves, on the 
perspicuity which had so readily foreseen the purpose of his 
visit. 

“ In love, — poor fellow, — decidedly in love !” thouglit he; and 
he assumed a benign countenance and gracious attitude, to en- 
courage him to be as brief as possible in announcing his passion 
and detailing his proposals. 

“ You must have seen, my dear Sir,” said Mark, “ you cannot 
but have noticed that for some time past, my heart has been no 
longer in my own keeping. Clear-sighted as you are, Hargood, 
you probably penetrated my secret long before it was known to 
myself.” 

“ I am not very observant of such matters. But I am certain- 
ly prepared for your avowal of attachment.” 

“ And I trust also to sanction and promote it ?” 

“ Certainly, — certainly : — though my consent is perhaps not . 
the most important.” 

“ Hers will follow. Hers, if I may say so without presump- 
tion, I entertain little doubt of obtaining. But I thought it right 
first to place before you the exact state of my affairs. The sale 
of my commission cleared me, some months ago, from every sort 
of embarrassment ; and I now stand in possession of something 
more than two thousand a-year. Of this, I propose to settle half 


190 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


on her and her children, securing three hundred a-year pin- 
money to her for life ; and if — ” 

Stop stop, my good friend,” cried Hargood, scarcely able to 
follow his impetuous volubility. “ Before we enter into all these 
commercial particulars, surely it will be better to satisfy your- 
self if the young lady’s feelings justify such an exposure of your 
affairs.” 

“ They do, — they do !” cried Marcus. “ I am satisfied that she 
loves me, — perhaps I should say likes ^ — for till after marriage, 
few women have courage to apply the right name to tlie right 
thing. But for Heaven’s sake, Hargood, do not keep me in sus- 
pense. Tell me that I have your sanction to my addresses.” 

“ Of course you have ; — but — ” 

“No buts, no blits, I entreat ! I feel so happ}", so liopeful, — 
that the slightest obstacle drives me distracted. But when may 
I see her ?” 

“ As soon, I presume, as you can make your W'ay to Batter- 
sea.” 

“ Gone there, already ? I felt so sure, at this early hour, of 
finding her !” 

“ Gone there ?” repeated Hargood, a little astonished ; yet 
making due allowance for the bewildering influence of love. 

“I fancied that, having passed the day yesterday with her 
aunt and cousin, Mary would to-day remain at home.” 

“ Mary ! Of whom in God’s name are you talking ?” exclaim- 
ed Hargood, aghast. — “ Are you out of your mind ?” 

“ A little, I’m afraid ! Nor can you wonder at it, my dear 
Hargood, when you reflect that you have just given your con- 
sent to my marriage with your daughter.” 

“ My daughter^ Captain Davenport ? I believe, throughout, 
that you were alluding to my niece Amy Meadowes.’^ 

“ My cousin Amy !” cried Mark, impatiently shrugging his 
shoulders. “ Amy is a charming little girl. But who that has 
been admitted to the happiness of seeing and conversing with 
her cousin, would for a moment think of one so every way infe- 
rior !” 

“ And am I to understand,” said Hargood, “ that an attach- 
ment exists between you and my daughter; — and that you 


PROGUESS AND PREJUDICE. 


191 


nre only waiting for me to give my consent to make her yonr 
wife ?” 

“ And myself, the happiest man on earth.” 

'''That miserable phrase follows as a matter of course?” retort- 
ed llargood with a scornful smile, ‘“for so grateful a daughter must 
needs become a true and faithful wife. Mary!” cried he, almost 
fiercely, having stalked ac^ross the room and snatched open tbe 
heavy door of the studio, — “Mary, come hither! I wish to 
speak to you.” 

“ I find, Mary llargood,” said her father, “ that I have been 
warming a serpent in my bosom. Instead of the perfect confi- 
dence which I supposed to exist betw'cen us, — instead of the 
affection which ought to have existed between us, — you have 
given, witliout consulting your father, your affections and troth 
— plight to a comparative stranger!” 

“ Who says so, — who accuses me ?” inquired Mary, almost 
too much amazed to be angry. “I will not say that perfect 
confidence subsists between us, fatlier ; but this I can assert, — 
tliat had any man living spoken to me of love or marriage, I 
should have instantly apprised you ; and that, till this moment, 
no word of courtship has ever been uttered in my presence.” 

“Thank God!” ejaculated her father, — immeasurably relieved. 
“ To see you married to an Emperor, Mary, would not have re- 
paid me for having reared a thankless child!” 

A stern glance towards Mark Davenport seemed to demand 
further explanations. 

“You mistook me. Sir,” said he, chiefly moved at finding him- 
self the cause of the severe admonition addressed b) that dear 
Mary, into whose ears he was burning to pour a thousand en- 
dearing protestations. “You mistook me in supposing that 1 
announced myself as engaged to yonr daughter. The utmost I 
asserted was a hope that I >vas not altogether indifferent to her; 
and in that hope, I asked your sanction to my addresses.” 

“ I did mistake you, tlien. You seemed to imply that my 
daughter, — that this girl, — this child, — had been wooed and won, 
in secret, wilhout my sanction or knowledge. You certainly 
told me that she preferred you. But in these days, and in your 
class. Captain Davenport, I believe it is customary to make such 


192 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


boasts concerning every woman with whom you ever held ten 
minutes, conversation.” 

“ I trust at least, Mr. Hargood,” said Marcus, “ tliat, if 1 should 
hereafter obtain your daughter’s favourable reception of my pro* 
posals, your consent will not be -withheld on account of tliis mis- 
undei*standing ?” 

Mary is at liberty to choose for herself. Sir. In my opinion 
unequal matches afford small prospect of happiness. Whether 
she likes you well enough to overlook the objection, must rest 
with herself. 

“ What say you, Mary ?” continued Hargood,- addressing his 
daughter, who was now leaning against the arm-chair, in which 
he was magisterially enthroned. 

“Ido not admit the objection, father,” said she, in a tone 
of decision, for which Captain Davenport longed to throw him- 
self at her feet. “ I do not consider W'orldly position of suffi- 
cient moment to make it either a motive or an obstacle. But as 
regards the affection which Captain Davenport is generous 
enough to profess for me, I owe it to him to declare, aConce, 
that my heart says nothing in his favour. Were he an artist like 
myself, or did I belong to his own class of society, it would be 
the same. I could never love him. There are points in Captain 
Davenport’s character wdiich Avoujd render him insupportable to 
me as a companion for life. The man to Avhom I devote myself, 
as a wife, must be steady of purpose, gracious of deportment, 
gentle with his friends, generous wdth Ins enemies, forbearing 
with my faults, cognizant of his own, and submissive, Iminbly 
and trustfully as myself, to the will of God. I do not find these 
qualities in Captain Davenport; — and therefore, could not love 
him as a husband. I do not care for distinctions, either of birth 
or talent. Affection must be all in all.” 

“You have said enough. Miss Hargood,” exclaimed Mark 
Davenport, stung to the quick. “ God forbid that I should force 
my addresses on any woman breathing; — more especially on one 
so exacting and ffistidious. Whetlier I have deceived myself, or 
whether you liave deceived me, it matters not no-w to inquire, I 
take my leave of you at once and for ever, — lamenting only to 
have wasted a year of my life, — with all its honest purposes, 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


193 


manly projects, and warmth of atfection, — on what appears to 
have been the shadow of a dream !” 

It was perhaps because lie found himself on the point of be- 
traying emotions which lie was too proud to exhibit in presence 
of the -woman who had so cruelly slighted him, that, having 
wrung Hargood by the hand, he hastily quitted the room. As 
the door closed loudly after his departure from the house, Mary, 
whose courage had not failed her when it was wanted, sank lan- 
guidl}^ into a chair. 

“You are not angry with rue, father?” said she, perceiving 
that the brows of Ilargood were contracted by vexation or dis- 
pleasure. 

“ Not angry with you for having a mind, — and knowing it; — 
not angry with you for disclaiming a preference you do not feel. 
But it strikes me, Mary, that you owed me the respect of con- 
sulting me before you so decidedly rejected an opportunity of 
securing an honourable home for yourself, and an advantageous 
connection for yoiir brothers.” 

Mary Hargood folded her arms over her bosom with a look of 
despair. Were her feelings then netcr to be consulted? Was 
she always to be a mere stepping-stone to the family ? 

“ But it is too late now' to discuss the matter,” added Mr. Ilar- 
good, noticing her desponding attitude. “Davenport is not a 
man to be recalled, or trifled with. So now, my dear, go back 
to your pain ting- room. All this must not distract our attention 
from business:— and I have already wasted half my morning. 
Bemeraber, Mary, that, at this time of year, every glimpse of 
daylight is precious. We have contracted to send home your 
‘ Aurora ’ varnished and dry before Christmas Day. We cannot 
afford to be idle.” 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

The heart of Lady Meadowes sank within her when, two 
days afterwards, she heard her brother, while ascending tho 
stairs, inquiring of Marlow after the health of his niece. She 
dreaded his entry into the room. His joy and exultation w'ould 
be too much for her. She knew not where she should find 

9 


194 


PROGRESS AND FREJEDICE, 


presence of mind to offer liim the congratulations on irar}-’'3 
approacliiug marriage, which he was doabtless come to demand. 

But to her surprise, Ilarg^ood seemed irritable and out of 
spirits. Ilis manner towards herself was far less kind tlian at 
eitiier of his former visits. Something had evidently ruffled his 
temper. But he did not suffer her long to remain in ignorance 
of the cause of his ill-humor, but abruptly introduced the subjecvt 
by saying — 

“ That young man Mark, who, you say, has proved so kind a 
friend to you, has to 7ne proved the wmrst of enemies.” 

“Indeed?” murmured his astonished sister. 

“By sowing the seeds of perpetual discord in my house! lie 
has inspired Mary with notions of her own consequence, lliat 
will doubtless sooner or later estrange her from her duties, and 
create a distaste for her allotted portion in this world !” 

“ By expressing an attachment to her ?” faltered Lady Mea- 
dowes, anxious to bring him to the point, 

“ By asking her to become his wife.” 

“ And you refused liiin ?” faltered Lady Meadowes, scarcely 
able to articulate. 

“Not I ! She might have married him and welcome, had she 
thought proper. It w^as Mary herself who dismissed him.” 

“Slie has formed, then, some other attachment?” 

“No! But she is a girl of sterling principle. Tlie same 
strength of body and mind wliich secures Iier from nervous liead- 
aches, would disdain even a coronet, where she could not con- 
scientiously pronounce the marriage vow. She neither loved 
nor iionored Captain Davenport ; and told him so frankly to his 
face.” 

Lady Meadowes thunderstruck. Their own dear generous, 
spiiitecl, accomplished, distinguished Mark, to be thus ignomini- 
cusly rejected ! 

“ And Avhat has become of liim, then?” 

Gone back to the North, I suppose. I have never inquired. 
It is enough for me that he has set fire to the train of vanity 
latent in every female nature. Mary has already become moping 
and taciturn— reflecting upon— perhaps repenting— the precipi- 
tancy of her decision. And noAV the boys are coming home 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


195 


from school, instead of attending to them as usual, I shall prob- 
ably have her neglect the. business of the household to indulge 
in idle reveries and construct castles in the air !” 

It was a relief to Lady Meadowes when this trying interview 
was interrupted by an event so rare in her solitary life as a 
morning visit. A visitor, too, from Radensford! And if it 
afforded satisfaction to Edward Hargood to see his sister affec- 
tionately and deferentially accosted by a woman of superior 
manners and appearance with whom she seemed ta have been 
intimately connected throughout the years of bis estrangement, 
it caused equal surprise to Mrs. Burton to find in the burly surly 
man, who disappeared shortly after her entrance, a brother of 
Lady Meadowes; whom, during their long friendship, she had 
regarded as much isolated from human relationsiiip, as though 
she had been produced out of a crucible. 

Lady Meadowes meainvhile w'elcomed her warmly: for Rachel 
Burton seemed to bring with her something of the climate of 
her lost Eden. Slie was looking so well and so briglit, that it 
was clear her sudden visit to the metropolis wns connected with 
some pleasant vicissitude. 

“My father could not be prevailed upon to accompany me,” 
said she, in reply to the inquiries of her friend after Mr. Hender- 
son. “His days are numbered, he says; and he has scarcely 
time left to attend to his professional duties ; far less to indulge 
in pastime. But 1 know you will be glad to hear, dear Lady 
Meadowses, tliat in his declining years liis labors w'ill be lightened. 
Since he undertook the maintenance of his daughter and grand- 
child, my dear father has, as you know', been forced to relinquish 
the assistance of a curate. But all will now' be right again. 
We are grown wonderfully rich. He is released from all anxiety 
on our account.” 

Congratulations w'ere readily offered; and the explanations 
asked for, as readily offered. 

“ My husband’s father (wdio w’as on terms of enmity with poor 
Sylvester nearly from the time of our marriage) has lately died, 
w'ithout a W'ill ; and my little Sophia becomes his heiress. My 
business in London was to make her a ward in chancery ; and a 
liberal allowance has been already assigned me as her guardian.” 


196 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


Again, the friendly sympathy of Lady Meadijwes 'vvas forth- 
coming. 

“Yes! it is indeed an unexpected turn of fortune,” replied 
Mrs. Burton. “ Yet, discontented mortals that we are, — I find 
myself oftener repining that riches should come so late, — than 
grateful that they should come at all. Something whispers to 
me, dearest Lady Meadowes, that had that dear child obtained 
better medical traatinent immediately on our return from India, 
her health might have been established. Good old Dr. Burnaby 
pats me on the back, and says, ‘No, nothing more could have 
been done.’ But already, since I came to town, a consultation 
of the first advisers has decided that warm sea-bathing must be 
instantly resorted to. The curvature of the spine beginning to 
be apparent, may thus, they hope, be remedied.” 

“ God grant it 1 You have been some time tlien in London ?” 

“ Only long enough for the execution of legal forms indispen- 
sable to substantiate our claims on the estate of the late Mr. 
Burton,” replied Rachel. “ This is the first day I have had to 
dispose of.” 

Lady Meadowes shook her head misgivingly. “ Nay, nay, for 
some months past, you have almost ceased to write,” she re- 
sumed. “Except for an occasional letter of business from Dr. 
Burnaby, I should fancy we were already forgotten at Radens- 
ford.” 

“ Never, dear Lady Meadowes, — never , — neter ! But to own 
the truth, I believed your thoughts to be engrossed by Amy’s 
marriage.” 

“ Her marriage 

“ The news was brought back from Clifton by her guardian, 
last spring. You yourself seemed to confirm it.” 

“ If my refraining from direct contradiction Avas so interpreted, 
I am much to blame,” said Lady Meadowes, with something of 
a guilty conseiousness ; “ for Amy is not, and never has been 
likely to be married to her cousin.” 

Mrs. Burton started forward, and seized her hand. 

“ Then accept my heartiest congratulations,” said she. “ For 
Mark Davenport is wholly unworthy of her!” 

“ You know him, then ?” 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


197 


N’o one better.” 

“ Yet believing liira to be affianced to Amy, you said not a 
word to liis disparagement!” 

“ To what purpose, — if they were really betrothed ?” Besides, 
from peculiar circumstances, my lips were sealed.” 

“ But even before this supposed engagement, dear Mrs. Bur- 
ton, — at Radensford, — at Meadowes Court, you never spoke of 
Captain Davenport as an acquaintance ?” 

“ I once mentioned his name to poor Sir Mark ; Avho burst 
into such a fury of invective, — disclaiming and denouncing the 
whole family, — that I never ventured on the subject again. Ol 
yourself, dear Lady Meadowes, I still stood on iny return from 
India, somewhat in awe. I fancied you still saw in me the 
wilful, lliglity, Rachel Henderson, who had been such a torment 
to her father.” 

‘‘ Rather the cliild^ Rachel Henderson,” rejoined Lady Mea- 
dowes, “ who, from being spoiled by her father, became so great 
a torment to herself.” 

“ It was only after I had proved to you by years of resigna- 
tion and retirement, that time and suffeiiug had subdued me to 
a sense of duty, it was only then I ventured to approach you on 
a more equal footing.” 

“ Admit, at least, that you were received with open arms : — 
that we all loved you Rachel, both for your father’s sake and 
your ow'n?” 

“ The best consolations of my forlorn life reached me from 
Meadowes Court,” was Mrs. Burton’s earnest reply. “ Still, the 
difference of age between us, — my own recent afflictions, — your 
personal motives for avoiding every allusion to the name of 
Davenport, united to preclude all confidences connected with 
Marcus.” 

“ But now^ dearest Rachel, these objections are removed. 
Now^ you can no longer hesitate to acquaint me with your rea- 
sons for believing him unworthy to become the husband of 
Amy.” 

Mrs. Burton did, however, hesitate. To talk of him at all, 
seemed like withdrawing a veil of oblivion from afflictions only 
half obliterated. 


198 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


“ Wlieii I tell yon,” persisted Lady Meadowes, “ that, by con- 
vincing us of bis want of merit, you would be the cause of 
softening to 5'our young friend the bitterest disappointment ; — 
and by this means, reconcile me to myself for having rashly ex- 
posed my darling child to the penalties of an ill-placed attach- 
ment ?” 

“ Thus adjured, I cannot refuse,” replied Mrs. Burton. “ But 
bear in mind, dear Lady Meadowes, that it is only on such sacred 
grounds, I revert to this painful history. It is at least known 
to you, — no, of even that circumstance you are ignorant, — that 
Mark Davenport and my liusband belonged to the same regi- 
ment. It was not till we landed in India, however, that I made 
Captain Davenport’s acquaintance. Nor was it till I landed in 
India that I became aware of being united to a man to whom 
the excesses of vice were familiar. In these, as in all else, Da- 
venport was his associate ; but to do him justice, it was as a 
scholar rather than a teacher. I hate to dwell on that miser- 
able period of my life. Neglected and insulted by tlie man for 
whose sake I had sacrificed my father and my country, I was 
often in want of the necessaries of life. The feeble health of my 
poor little Sophia is in fact attributable to the privations I en- 
dured previous to her birth.” 

She paused for breath. But Lady Meadowes was too deeply 
intei'ested to interpose a word. 

“Throughout my troubles as the wife of a drunkard and a 
gambler,” she resumed, “but one protecting hand was extended 
towards me — that of Marcus. Amidst the worst of m3" husband’s 
follies and extravagances, Marcus seemed to be endeavoring to 
reclaim and recal him to a sense of duty towards his helpless wife 
“and child. Often, the common necessaries which I Avas no 
* longer able to purchase reached my bungalow, or were supidied 
to me on our line of march, at the moment thev’’ were most 
Avanted, as if by magic inter[) 05 ition. I Avill not den}" that I 
soon guessed to Avln^t compassionate friend I Avas indebted; and, 
knowing that I should eventuall}' obtain from my father the 
means of repayment, I accepted in silence — but even more 
gratefully than if I had spoken my thanks. I felt that to this 
generous protector I Avas indebted for preserving the life of my 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


199 


sickly infant. Judge, therefore, dear Lady Meadowes, of the 
Eature of my feelings towards him!” 

“It was like Marcus!” ejaculated Lady Meadowes. “Just so 
kind — so considerate ■was his conduct towards ourselves, when 
he withdrew us from our miserable retreat at Clifton and 
escorted us hither.” 

“In that case, his interference w'as^ justifiable — his motives 
honorable. In mine, he acted like a villain. After establishing 
himself by my side as a benefactor — protector — friend — after 
Mfinning my confidence and loading me with obligations — he pre- 
sumed upon his trust to offer himself as a lover! Yes, to me^ 
the wife of his friend and brother officer — the daughter of a 
minister of the church — the mother of a dying child ! I scarcely 
knew in wliat words of disgust I banished him from the house, 
lie knew that, from my husband, the fear of bloodshed would 
compel me to conceal his conduct. But I thi'eatened should the 
offence be renewed, to expose it to his superior officer, and his 
family at home; and by this means, succeeded in breaking off 
the connection. Remittances from home luckily enabled me to 
discharge my pecuniary obligations. To requite the sense of 
humiliation to which he had reduced me, was impossible.” 

And at your husband’s death ?” inquired Lady Meadowes, 
with lips now pale and tremulous. 

“ At my husband"’s deatlx, to render him justice, lie behaved as 
became his ostensible friendship for the dead. Of all that occur- 
red on that terrible occasion, I am not fully certain. But he did 
not again intrude upon my presence ; and I have since learned 
that, among the friends who busied themselves most actively in 
arrangements for my comfort on my return to my native coun- 
ti-y, was Captain Davenport.” 

TJie least reparation he could offer.” 

■“ The least — for, to my apprehension, he owed me more. I 
need not tell you that at the moment of his insolent advances, the 
outrage w^as attributed to tlie "violence of an insurmountable 
passion. On that occasion, he swore that, from our first inter- 
view, Ills sole care or thought had been for me; that, had I 
been free, he would 'have instantly offered me his hand; nay, 
tJiat if I would even then desert my husband for his sake, a 


200 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


divorce should be obtained, enabling him to make me his wife. 
He promised to be a father to my child — to watch over me to 
love me. My only answer was to bid him begone, lest I should 
bo tempted to bring down upon his head the vengeance of the 
man he was betraying.” 

Mrs. Burton’s voice was now becoming broken by sobs. She 
-was evidently scarcely able to support the reminiscences her 
narrative had conjured up. She recommenced, however, in a 
subdued voice, and wdth an air of despondency. 

“I thought, therefore — I believed — hoped — that if the repen- 
tance he professed w^ere real, he would, -when the decencies of 
society permitted, o&r me the best proof of his sincerity, and 
the only reparation in his power ; by seeking as a wdfe the 
■woman he had vainly attempted to detach from her duties.” 

“ As, Heaven knows, w^as her due.” 

“ I heard from him no more. I saw his name mentioned with 
honor in the despatches. I knew that he was pursuing with 
success — f might say with glory — his military career. From 
Marcus himself, not a word!” 

“He perhaps, felt unworthy to address you. He dreaded a 
second repulse.” 

“ No — the levity of his nature w’as alone in fault. Ho had 
forgotten me. I waited for him and watched for him ; but he 
had forgotten me. In time, I learned to reproach myself it>r 
having watched and waited ; and began to submit myself, with- 
out one backward glance, to the exigencies of my position. In 
the accomplishment of my duties as a daughter and a mother, I 
entered a new' phase of my existence. Thanks be to Heaven, 
dear Lady Meadowes, I soon forgot him in my turn.” 

This last assertion was, perhaps, of all the narrative, the only 
word that did not bring instant conviction to her auditress. 
There was no need, however, to open the eyes of poor Rachel 
Burton to the real origin of the tears that were, even now, flowing 
from her eyes. Enough that she was able to thank her w'armly 
for her confidence ; and fully assent to the assertion that, united 
with a man so unprincipled— so given up to the impulse of the 
moment — poor Amy would have been a miserable wfife. 

“ You will tell her as much of all this as is good for her to 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


201 


know,” said Mrs. Burton, having gradually recovered her com- 
posure. ‘‘ I own it deeply grieved me when I heard that the 
misdeeds of lier cousin were crowned by the conquest of her 
innocent atfections. He used to boast that ho w’as ‘on the best 
terms with luck.’ Those who lean on such a shadow for support, 
sooner or later find themselves grovelling in the dust.” 

Lady Meadow'es did not feel justified in relating to her com- 
])anion the liumiliation lately undergone by this grievous 
ofiender. But it was agreed between them that, previous to 
repairing to Brighton, where the good Rector was to join his 
daughter as soon as an efficient substitute could be procured for 
his Radensford duties, little Sophia, the new heiress, should be 
brought to visit her dear Amy and her kind friend Lady 
Meadowes 

“ And then,” added Mrs. Burton at parting, “ I shall have 
leLure to give you new^s of your old neighborhood, of which I 
must now glance over the details. Old Nichols, as you doubtless 
know, has established a Meadowes Arms in the village. Neigh- 
bor Saville has follow'ed her beloved old master to the grave. 
The Manor House has been empty throughout the autumn ; and 
Lady Harriet has been on a visit to her sister at Horndean 
Court, where there has been a sad family affliction. The eldest 
of Lady Louisa’s daughters — a young girl, not yet introduced 
into society — has disgraced the family by an elopement of the 
most unfortunate nature ; and Lady Harriet has been remaining 
ever since with her sister, affording such consolation as lies in 
her power. But Lady Harriet herself, I suspect, is really as 
much niortified as the parents. It does not appear to have 
entered into the minds of either of the sisters that a member of 
their family could possibly stoop to a plebeian attachment.” 

‘‘The lover then is of a rank beneath their own ?” 

“ The son of the gamekeeper. Judge of Lady Louisa’s horror 
—of Lady Harriet’s consternation : — they, such slaves to public 
opinion?” 

“May the blow soften their hearts,” said Lady Meadowes, in 
a saddened voice. “ They h.ave been smitten w'here they w^ere 
most vulnerable. And Meadowes Court — ^poor old Meadowes 
Court ?” she added, with averted eyes, and in a faltering voice. 

0 * 


202 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


“ I scarcely liked to pronounce the name till you broached the 
subject. Meadowes Court is undergoing the most complete 
repair. The gardens have been completed ; the paddock is newly 
fenced--” 

“ Sir Jervis, then, is coming to reside there?” 

“ No, it has been taken, on a long lease, by a stranger ; a friend 
or relative of Lady Harriet Warneford. She is not expected to 
return home from Horndean, till the new tenant is installed at 
Meadowes Court.” 

“And you do not know his name?” said Lady Meadowes, 
greatly interested. 

“ 1 have heard — ^but not from good authority — only from the 
supposition of poor old Nichols — that tf^ new tenant is no other 
than our old acquaintance — ^Mr. Eustace.” 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

It was on one of those December days when London is at its 
hatefullest, and the atmosphere seems doubly dense from coming 
snow and impending Christmas bills, that unannounced and 
impetuous as a whirlwind, Mark Davenport rushed into Hamilton 
Drewe’s apartment, and threw himself on the sofo ; while 
Cocotte, recognising in ecstasy her unqu while master, kept 
screaming from herpercli “ Marcus, old fellow, Marcus, Marcus!” 

“My dear Davenport!” exclaimed the recumbent neophyte, 
who lay masticating a preparation of haschish, in orde^ to get up 
the steam for a page of hexameters: — “where, where on earth 
do you start from ?” — 

“ No matter whence I come or whither I am bound — for I 
have little leisure for idle gossip,” said Mark, in an accent to 
which any one who dared to take liberties with him might have 
ventured to answer “ Cease, rude Boreas.” “ I am here to ask a 
favor of you, Drewe, — a great favor !” 

Involuntarily, the man of many stanzas glanced towards the 
'wall ; where, betrophied in warlike attitude, in company with 
Malay kreeses and Turkish yataghans, hung a pair of Wagdon’s 


PROGUESS AN© PREJUDICS. 


203 


dueHimg pistols, to Avhich he liiul succeeded with his family 
estates: — nothing doubting that the favor about to be demanded 
at his hands by his fiery friend, was to accompany him as second, 
in a siugle combat, to Wimbledon Common. 

“You are a gentleman and a good fellow, Drewe,” I'esumed 
Davenport — “ though a bit of an — no matter 1 Will you oblige 
me?” 

“Willingly — if you will explain yourself,” rejoined Drewe — 
who was seldom asked to oblige anybody, unless with his auto- 
graph, inscribed on the reverse of a bit of stamped paper. 

“ I want you to take said Davenport, opening his pocket- 
b;)ok and presenting him with a blank cheque upon Coutts, “ to 
(ill up as you find occasion. Take it !” said he, extending the 
paper (in a hand whose tremuhnisness sufficiently attested his 
emotion), on seeing that Di*ewe was so utterly at a loss to inter- 
pret this act of munificence, as to hesitate about accepting the 
deposit “ You know the Hargoods — that is you know Hargood 
— ^\'ou know his pursuits, his necessities — or at all events, you 
know those better informed concerning them, who will place 
you au courant of his wants. To supply them, use my money 
as you will. I am going away — to leave town — to leave En- 
gland — to leave Europe. I scarcely know indeed at present 
whither I am houiKh But you must represent me here, Drewe. 
All 1 ask — and I know no man’s word of honor on whom I can 
more fully rely — is that you will never name to any living soul 
the nature of this interview ; or risk the discovery of the source 
of the benefits secretly conferred on Hargood.” 

“ This is a serious commission, my dear fellow,” said Drewe, 
unspeakably surprised. “I must think twice ere I accept it.” 

“ No ! Like a good fellow, close with it at once.” 

“ But reflect that, in the first place, some unexpected chance 
may bring youi;; share in the business to light ; when the vials of 
wrath you are likely to pour on my head would be no trifle. In 
the next, that if Hargood, as haughty in his way as Coriolanus, 
Avere to find out that you were insinuating alms into his wallet, 
an eruption of Vesuvius would be a mild alternative. No! take 
back your cheque, my dear Davenport. By Jove, I daren t !” 

“I might have expected it!” cried Marcus, starting up. 


204 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


“ Everything and evei^body are against me ! I Laven^t a friend 
I can trust to in the world !” 

Drewe surveyed liim wdth amazement. He, Mark Davenport 
the bold, — the overbearing, — the triumphant, — tlie successful, — 
who “drew out Leviathan with an hook, and bored the jaw of 
Behemoth with a thorn he, the crusher of other men's feel- 
ings, the anatomist of other men’s thoughts, the analyser of ot lier 
men’s purposes, to be so thoroughly cast down ! The kind- 
hearted lyrist could scarcely set bounds to his sympathy. His 
voice became troubled — his eyes tearful. It might be that the 
influence of the haschish liad its share in streaking his sallow 
cheek with hectic spots and veiling his glazy eyesight. But 
Marcus was deeply moved by his apparent warmth of feeling. 

“ I will do what you wish, Davenport,” said Drewe, resignedly. 
“ Only explain yourself as clearly as possible, to avoid all chance 
of my mistaking you. For, as you were about to say just now, 
— am but an ass — especially in matters of business: and you 
are not the man to be tolerant of a fellow-creature’s deficiency 
of judgment. So tell me — ^liow much am I to devote to the 
exigencies of Ilargood and his family — and how is it to bo 
applied ?” 

“ How much f Hundreds, thousands if you will. Anything 
within compass of my fortune, the cypher of which you know : 
as much at all events as can be converted to his advantage with- 
out exciting his suspicions.” 

“ You have answered only half my question. How is all this 
to be done ?” 

“ A poet, and so "wanting in invention ? It is to be done like 
Ariel’s spiriting, — ‘gently.’ Is anything easier than, in this 
town, to forward to a house the objects wanting to its comfort, 
as from a nameless friend ? To what purpose are red-men and 
ticket porters, to what purpose parcel-delivery companies, or 
railway-vans ? My dear Drewe, I don’t wonder your play was 
damned, if for such plotting and stage business as this, you are 
incompetent.” 

“ I am glad, at all events, to see you more cheerful,” said 
Drewe, rallying a little. “ You almost frightened me, just now. 
But I really believe you use me as a damper, and come and tame 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


205 


down your rage upon poor mo, as the Roman Empress used to 
try the strength of lier poisons upon slaves.” 

Yon, too, are recovering your courage, since you can afford 
to be pedantic !” replied Marcus, shrugging bis shoulders. “ But 
whether I draw it mild or bitter, be certain, Drewe, that I have 
a sincere regard for you. I should love you better if you would 
go and spud up weeds in your neglected Northumbrian farms, 
instead of digging hopelessly on in this over- worked garden of 
the Ilesperides. Perhaps by the time I return, you may have 
wisely exchanged your ever-pointed Mordan for a bill-hook ? 
And now, good bye, God bless you, Drewe. We may perhaps 
never meet again. Take care of poor Cocotte for my sake. Let 
her have her almond daily, and don’t corrupt her ears by non- 
sense. Good bye. I sail,, that is, I steam to night from South- 
ampton, a lirst class screw — letter A 1. am going sketch- 
making to the Ionian Islands. Better for me, and all belonging 
to me, if we went down at once, like the poor Amazon.” 

Another second, and lie had disappeared. Hamilion Drewe 
felt as if a rocket had gone up, or a diving-bell down, leaving 
him a gaping, powerless spectator. But that the haschish was 
inflaming his veins with its subtle poison, and subduing his brain 
with its narcotic ascendancy, he would have endeavoured to 
follow him, and offer to accompany him to his place of embark- 
ation. 

As it was, he only sank powerlers into his lounging-chair ; as 
much excited, yet as ffiirly overcrowed, as Dominie Sampson af- 
ter his interview with the terrible Meg Merrilies ; while still 
Cocotte kept muttering elegiacally on the perch, “ Marcus, old 
fellow ! Marcus, Marcus !” 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

Christmas, so great an impostor in its usurped character of an 
epoch of universal peace, proved that year a season of probation 
to those two young cousins whose beauty and merit, though not 


206 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


•without votaries, had failed to accomplish a single object prized 
by either. 

Ilargood had succeeded — for when does a quietly arbitrary 
man fail to succeed? — in determining his sister’s removal to town. 
She now redded near him, in an ill-furnished roomy lodging in 
Golden Square ; as if to place herself and her daughter more 
immediately within reach of his objurgation. Seldom a day 
passed that, in spite of his occupations, he did not find ten 
minutes’ leisure to break in upon them, and find fault: if fine, 
because they were keeping house; if they had been out, because 
the weather looked uncertain. He was often angry with Amy 
for reading ; because, if engaged in needlework, she might have 
amused her mother with conversation. But if he happened to 
discover her at work, he blamed still more an employment which 
encouraged Lady Meadowes to fatigue herself by reading aloud 
for her entertainment. Amy was beginning to understand why 
lier cousin Mary often came to them with such harassed looks 
and heavy eyes. Nor was she much puzzled to discover why 
her two young cousins, Ned and Frank, on their arrival at homo 
for the Christmas holidays, found so pleasant the dull drawing- 
rooms in Golden Square; because it contained no moral crank to 
which they could be sentenced. 

Mary was thankful to her cousin and aunt for the kindness 
with which these intrusions were tolerated. From her heart of 
hearts, she thanked them that the two motherless boys were 
able, for the first time, to apprehend the value of home, and 
understand the meaning of the word holiday. Under Lady Mea- 
dowes’s wing, they were able to indulge their youthful fancies ; 
wandering far and far away, out of foggy London, out of blue- 
booked England, into the land of Faery: into the magic realm of 
Scott’s novels, into the wilds of Arctic or Australian adventure. 
How their young eyes sparkled over the pages of Kobinson Crusoe ; 
in which, if placed for the first time in the hands of the eldest 
Ilargood, he would have seen only a book to review ! 

Amy, on her part, was keenly alive to the affectionate interest 
maintained towards her by her cousin. Intuitive perception 
had warned her of the jealousy of which she was at first the ob- 
ject : for her own wounded heart emulated this defeaturing sen- 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


201 


timent so long as she belield in Mary Hargood the envied object 
pre-engrossing the affections of Marcus. But no sooner did the 
sceur-grise of the studio perceive that her fatlier was becoming 
still severer towards Amy than he had ever been ‘towards lier- 
self, than she became her unflinching champion and advocate ; 
jest as Amy, on learning that her cousin Mark had quitted Eng- 
land, perhaps for years, perliaps for ever, turned si)onraneousIy 
towards the being he loved best on earth, as towards a guardian 
angel. 

They sought each other, in sliort, with reciprocal aftection and 
to their mutual advantage. Each sisterless, — they became as 
sisters. The strength of mind of the one, — the tenderness of 
heart of the other, — could aftbrd to amalgamate without loss 
to either. 

To Mary, the mere detail of Amy’s daily life at Meadow'es 
Court, was a page of the choicest poetry. Every one has 
heard the mournful answer of the Birmingham child when ex- 
amined at the National School — “ flowers, child, you must have 
seen flowers?” — “ Yes, but never growing P ' — Such was nearly 
the condition of Mary Hargood. The nearest approach she 
had seen to the majesty of nature was in the landscapes of 
Claufle or Turner ; and to listen to Amy’s vivid description of 
the beechen avenue at Meadowes Court, the old chase at Bur- 
dans with its ferns and lichens, — its orchises and anemones, 
— its birds and squirrels, its “spotted snakes” with shifting 
skins, — its urchins and newts all breathing, to Mary’s ear of the 
Midsummer Night’s Dream rather than of vulgar experience, 
w’as as if a minstrel were reciting. 

All the advantage, however, was not on Amy’s side. When 
her talk was ended of homely scenes, such as Gray and Gold- 
smith have described in song, -or Izaal-: Walton in prose, and her 
own turn came for drawing or stitching, Mary used to recite 
to her chosen passages from Massinger and Johnson, Corneille 
and Moliere; imposed as tasks, by her father in her childhood, 
and now familiar to her lips as her national language. Her 
declamation was of the highest order. She enunciated these 
noble passages with that spontaneity of intuiton, the want of 


208 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


which, owing to the overbnrthened memories of actors, is one of 
the chief deteriorations of tlie public stage. 

The nature of the two cousins was of too refined an order to 
admit of indulging in vulgar confidences about lovers and con- 
quests, such as are occasionally audible in the boudoirs of May 
Fair. There were reasons, indeed, for a more than common re- 
serve between them. Tlie name of Marcus, for instance, was 
impossible to pronounce. Once, when Amy adverted to some 
letter which had just reached them from Lady Davenport, dwell- 
ing with fond partiality on the merits and charms of her dear 
Olivia, Mary could not restrain a half envious ejaculation of : 
“You are fortunate, Am}’-, you are indeed rich in cousins.” 

But it was not of Olivia Davenport Mary Ilargood was think- 
ing ; — still less, of Mark. 

A nice observer might have been amused, perhaps, to ])erccive 
that, unconsciously to himself, Ilargood’s appreciation of his 
daughter Avas gradually rising. Had some fi’ank speaker ad- 
verted to the fact, he would probably have ascribed his increased 
approbation to the disinterested spirit she had displayed in her 
rejection of worldly distinctions. But it was not really so. He 
now saw in her one who might have been, had she chosen, and 
might still be, if she chose, the associate and equal of that aris- 
tocratic class which he opposed only under the instigations of 
wounde<l pride. 

He was aware — for the vicissitudes of his public avocations 
often brought him into collision Avith men of the highest rank — 
that no class of society contains a larger portion of administratiA'o 
talent, of refined taste, of generous purposes, than the nobility 
of England; and aboA’^e all, of the tact and courtesy Avhich 
brings all these to bear like the unguent indispensable to keep in 
movement all complex machinery. Hugh Davenport Avas far 
from the only man of his caste to Avhose abilities and intentions 
he rendered justice. And to knoAV that Mary, had she so AA’ished 
it, might have Avalked in silk attire for the rest of her days, 
hand in hand Avith one of the privileged, seemed to affix on her 
a hall stamp of sterling A^alue, guaranteeing the purity of tho 
gold. 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


209 


He was even beginning to jinlge less highly of the sweet 
little niece who had failed to obtain a similar certification. 
It extorted from him some peevish remark whenever Lady 
Mead owes seemed to hold her daughter exonerated from cer- 
tain duties all but menial, which he strictly exacted from his 
own. The incomes of their parents were nearly on a par. 
MTiy was one to be more fastidious than another ? 

But when in Mary’s presence he once gave utterance to the 
same opinion, her Itonest indignation was not to be silenced. 

'''‘Why J Because Amy has been reared iti the lap of lux- 
ury — with servants to wait upon her — with friends to idolize 
her : as the heiress of Meadowes Court — as the spoilt child of 
doating parents. Whereas I have roughed it through life ; 
and scarcely know the difference between white bread and 
brown.” 

‘‘Amy Meadowes has now attained woman’s estate, and 
should understand her new position,” persisted Hargood, 
gruffly. “It is time she took a lesson out of your book, Mary, 
and turned lier hands to useful purposes.” 

“ It is a shame to carry a porcelain vase to the well as 
you would an earthen pitcher,” rejoined Mary. “ Amy’s nature, 
so instinct with delicacy and refinement, would wither up if 
she were compelled to labour as I have laboured. God has 
appointed a different vegetation, father, to the hill and the 
valley ; and a difierent temperament to the enjoying and the 
working class. Don’t quarrel with Amy. She was born to be 
sweet, and dear, and ornamental. It makes mj’^ poor aunt 
liappy only to look at her. It makes me happy only to listen to 
her. I am persuaded some auspicious destiny is in store for her. 
We are told that 

spirits are not finely touched 
Save to fine issues. 

A being so formed to diffuse happiness as my cousin Amy, can- 
not have been intended to waste her charms and talents in 
hemming dusters and chronicling small beer. When I look at 
her, father, in her robe de bure^ the ‘ All hail, Macbeth ! that 


210 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


shall be king hereafter,’ of the weird women of Forres, comes to 
my lips in the shape of ‘Porpliyrogenita ! thou wert born to tlie 
purple, and in the purple shalt thou die. Thou art too noble for 
any humbler tenement.’” 

Hargood’s rage was now irresistible. 

“ This foolish girl is making you as romantic as herself,” cried 
he. “ But beware, Mary ! People must have clothes to their 
backs before they can indulge in vagaries and megrims. Enough 
that wo have two porcelain vases in the family. You and I 
must not forget that ‘ we are of the earth, earthy.’ ” 

But it was not by his daughter onl\’, that Hargood's patience 
was just then to be tried. So practical a man, measuring both 
time and people by money’s worth, was not likely to be tolerant 
f>f the importunate espionage with which he was pursued by 
Hamilton Drewe. 

In what he considered the conscious discharge of the duty he 
had undertaken towards his exiled friend, the zealous poet kept 
dogging the steps of Ilargood, witli his blank cheque in his 
pocket ; intent on discovering the foot of clay or vulnerable lieel 
lacking a lamb's wool sock. IIow was lie to ascertain Avhat 
might be the necessities of the Hargood family, unless he could 
penetrate into their interior, and discover whether they were 
hungry and wanting to be fed, or naked and wanting to bo 
clothed? Wherever Hargood turned his steps, followed this 
troublesome appendage! At the meetings of the learned so- 
cieties whose initials were legion, where the two Drewes (Oanis 
major and Canis minor, both erudite puppies) were as essenrial 
as subscribers, as himself as reporter, he was sure to find the 
poet fidgeting at his elbow. Whether the lecturer were describ- 
ing the reliques found in the tombs of the Pharaohs, or classify- 
ing the strata on the height of Popocatepetl, if Hargood did hut 
turn his head while screwing down the lead of his patent pencil, 
there smiled the trivial insignificant face of Hamilton Drew^e ! 
He began at last to feel almost afraid of drawing out his handker- 
chief, lest the Homer of the Kose and Cross should emerge with 
it from his pocket, and roll over like Vathek’s dwarf, upon the 
floor. 

Now there was very little of the Man of TJz in Edward Har- 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


211 


good; and it was astonishing how a being so slender in mind 
and body as Hamilton Drewe, could venture to confront the 
thunder-storms levelled at him while pui-suing his courteous 
aggravations. Though Hargood had ceased to reply to the 
questions, frivolous and vexatious as those of a parliamentary 
committee, or college tutor, or catechizing curate, which Drewe 
was perpetually discharging at him, except by the most snappish 
monosylables — a “yes” or “no,” impelled as by a percussion 
cap — still, true to his promise, the faithful hound went on lick- 
ing the hand of the tyrant, and dogging his heels. 

One day, one glittering frosty day in January, either because 
the cheque was burning in his pocket, or because Cocotte at 
breakfast time, cheered by a gleam of sunshine, had indulged in 
her usual cry of “Marcus, old fellow! — Marcus, Marcus!” so as 
to rouse up a thousand echoes in the sympathetic bosom of , 
Hamilton Drewe, he started olf, resolved to penetrate at all 
hazards into the sanctuary in Soho, where abided the “family ” 
forming the Co. of the firm recommended to his protection. Tlie 
maiden sister, or aunt, or whosoever might be the presiding 
genius of the place, should be coaxed or coerced into explaining 
the domestic cares to which the poet attributed the fiowns and 
peevishness he had of late seen low'ering on the brow of Hargood. 

Leaning upon the huge gold-headed Malacca cane, almost large 
enough for a beadle, which he was in the liabit of -wielding as if 
it constituted his wand of office as Chamberlain of the Muses, and 
buttoned to the chin inadollman lined with sables wliich he had 
brought back with him from the Balkan, he addressed himself so 
strenuously to the weazened maid, whose appointment as Cer- 
berus was beginning to be no sinecure, that half-a-sovereign 
obtained him access to the house. 

“ I don’t know whether you means Miss Mary or Miss Amy, 
Sir,” said she, having pocketed the baksheesh insinuated into her 
hand by the visitor, whom she knew not whether to class as a 
play-actor, a painter’s model, or a quack-doctor ; “ but you’ll find 
’em both together. Sir, in master’s room.” 

And together he found them ; seated side by side at Ilargood’s 
old leather-covered table, their heads inclined so closely that 
they might have been comprised in a medallion, over a volume of 


212 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


Oallot’s etchings borrowed by her father from an eminent print- 
stdler at the request of Mary, who was pointing out to her couj^in, 
in tlie series of Spanish Mendicants, the origin of innumerable 
modern plagiarisms — wlien tlie sudden opening of the door and 
tlie announcement of “ Air. Drevve,” caused them to look up, 
exliibiting to the poet a brighter A^ision of Fair AYoraen than 
AVatteau, Redgrave, or Frank Stone ever put upon canvass, or 
Tennyson upon paper. 

Dryden’s proverbial hero, “ the fool of Nature,” did not stand 
more stupidly transfixed, when lirst he caught sight of Iphigenia ! 
The latest echo evoked by Cocutte in his bosom seemed to 
reiterate in tones most significant — “Marcus, old fellow ! Alarcus, 
Alarciis!” on discovering, at a glance, the origin of his friend 
Davenport’s munificence, in the lovely objects before him. 

The two girls, on the other hand, were scarcely less struck by 
the singular figure that presented itself: the long-haired, mous- 
taCiiioe<l, be-furred, be-frogged incognito; something between 
Beniowski e.-caped fr()m Siberia, in the fronti^^piece to a cheap 
edition of his memoirs, and Tekc-li, as performed at Her Ala- 
jcity’s Theatre, Drury Lane. Since Amy Aleadowes’s last en- 
CvUinter with the independent gentleman, so liberal of “ bouquets,” 
she had never beheld a more ludicrous specimen of the severer 
sex. 

As he stood blushing, tiptoeing, and twisting in his hands his 
somewhat broad-brimmed beaver. Alary Ilargood almost ex- 
];ected to hear him break out into exclamations of “ O sweet 
Anne Page I” Nor was his self-possession restored when, find- 
ing him still speechless, she ro'^e and accosted him ; her noble 
1 ead, crowned with its rich black braid, making him fancy him- 
self in the presence of a queen of Nature’s making. Since his 
memorable on the hustings, never had ho felt so much as 
if his legs were made of cotton, and his tongue of flue. 

The last male intruder on Mary Hargood’s privacy was Alark 
Davenport; that ready-witted, ready- voiced Leonatus, who had 
very soon contrived to make her feel herself at home in her own 
apartments; and whose “garment, whose meanest garment,” 
possessed more character and substance than the whole compo- 
sition of the Cloten before her. 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


213 


“ You probably wish to see my father, Sir ?” said she. “You 
will find him at his business chambers, in St. Martin’s Lane.” 

“Pardon me, Madame; that is, I — I do wish to see him; that 
is I — I have the honor to be particularly known to him. But it’ 
I have the pleasure of now addressing his — his family — it is to 
them — that is, by Captain Davenport's express desire, I — I — 

“Captain Davenport ?” exclaimed Amy, starting up from the 
volume of Callot, over which she was endeavoring to conceal 
her merriment. “You can, perhaps, give us news of my cousin 
Mark I” 

'‘'‘^Cousin Mark.’ — ‘Marcus, old fellow, Marcus, Marcus!’” 
again significantly repeated the echo in the mind of poor Drewe. 
“And this mystery — these charming cousins — he kept to him- 
self!” 

But the spell was now, in some degree, broken ; and he replied 
in a more coherent manner to the milder-looking of the two 
beauties. 

“I wish it were in my power to afford you the smallest intel- 
ligence. His sudden departure from England caused as much 
uneasiness to myself as to his numerous friends — and family^''* 
added the poet, with a profound inclination of the head towards 
the fair kinswomen of “ Cousin Mark.” 

“You are at least acquainted with his destination,” said Amy, 
impatiently. 

“ He spoke of Egypt, Australia — ” Hamilton Drewe remem- 
bered that there were other places suggested by Marcus, which 
it might not be decorous to name. “But he chiefly talked of a 
sketching tour in the Ionian Islands.” 

“ You have not heard from him, then, since he quitted Lon- 
don ?” 

“Hot exactly ; but the ‘ Orinoco,’ in which he embarked, ar- 
rived at — ” 

“Yes, we know, we know! Of that, the public journals 
apprised us,” interrupted Mary Ilargood. “ But I do not yet 
exactly understand the motive of your visit here ?” 

Again poor Cymon was beginning to quake. Another inves- 
tigating look from those large dark eyes, and he was a gone 
coon ! But the case was -desperate ; and, with as strong an 


214 . 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE, 


effort of nature as if, 'witli a fresh sheet of cream laid before 
him, and a new goose-qnill in his hand, he were about to lay the 
foundation stone of a Shelieyari lyric, he informed her that, at 
the moment of quitting England forever. Captain Davenport had 
charged him with the duty of watching over Mr. Ilargood and 
his family, as the objects dearest to him on earth. 

Though Mary could not but consider the guardian selected for 
her, somewhat strangely chosen, she was touched by the forgiv- 
ing spirit which had suggested the appointment. 

“ I am afraid, Mr. Drewe,” said she, still struggling with a 
smile, at the oddity of his appearance and address, and the 
locks curling up on either side the central parting of his hair, 
like the waves in a bad jiicture of the Passage of the Red Sea, 
“I am afraid that, like diplomatists in general, you have some- 
what overstepped your mission. I can scarcely imagine that 
Captain Davenport instructed you to call here, since he was not 
himself a visiting acquaintance.” 

lie Avas just svarming up into courage to state that some cases 
Avere exceptional — that great minds Avere superior to vulgar con- 
ventions — Avhen a glance of Miss Hargood’s toAvards the door — 
a glance full of mirth and malice — caused him to turn around. 
And lo ! Edward Ilargood, looking very much like the didactic 
apparition in the Haunted Man, stood in an imposing attitude by 
his side. 

Like Nicol Jarvie in his intervieAV Avith Helen Maegregor, the 
terrified man endeavored to conceal his dismay under an assump- 
tion of familiarity. 

“ He had called hoping to find his friend Ilargood — and not 
finding him, Avas on the point of returning. But since his friend 
Ilargood had so opportunely returned,” he added, taking a mucli 
begilded volume from his pocket, ‘‘ he Avould not neglect the 
object of his visit: Avliich Avas to recommend to his critical 
indulgence a new comic serial Avork by his friend Dick Dodsley, 
author of ‘Fast and SIoav, or the Dodgers,’ illustraled by Cruick- 
shank.' That is a Oruickshank — not the Cruickshank.” 

“A very indefinite article, indeed!” ejaculated Ilargood, Avdio 
was in one of his most volcanic humors: — having just returned 
from a visit to his sister, Avhom he found full of pleasant antici- 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


215 


pation from the expected arrival in town of the Davenports. 
“ Blit yon must really excuse me, Mr. Drewe, from dipping my 
pen in the same puddle w'ith those literary associates of yours 
who seem to confound the Pierian spring with a howl of gin- 
sling or whisky-toddy. I do not profess to understand slang; I 
leave it to dustmen and cab-drivers. I liave some difficulty, I 
confess, in following even Thackeray and Dickens; though one 
is a man of education, the other, a man of genius. But when it 
comes to the detestable school they have founded — to the rinsings 
of the punch-bowl — the ashes of the cheroot — the peel of the 
forbidden fruit — my gorge rises at it ! So long, Sir, as we haye 
classical authors on our shelves — a legitimate drama bequeathed 
us by our ancestors, and immortal specimens of high art to ele- 
vate our tastes and understandings, I do not see why Ave should 
descend to such trash as ‘ Fast and Slow’ — ^the monstrosities of 
Adelphi farces, or the vulgarisms of Phiz and Cruikshank.” 

Hamilton DreAve felt very much as if an elephant’s foot Avere 
upon his neck ; — or as Bozzy may haA’e felt under the influence 
of one of Samuel Johnson’s knock-me-doAvn diatribes. 

It scarcely needed for Ilargood to add, “But I fear I must Avish 
you good morning. We are interrupting the occupation of these 
ladies,” — to stimulate him to a profound parting salutation to the 
f'jJw proteges oi Cousin Mark, a hurried fare.Avell to the Rhada- 
manthus of criticism — and a hasty exit. 

It would have been a dangerous inroad upon Captain Daven- 
port’s balance at Coutt’s, had Hamilton Drewe proceeded to fill 
up the blank and cheque in favmr of the Ilargood family, Avhile 
his feelings Avere perturbbd by the majestic and intelligent beauty 
of Mary Ilargood ; or the SAveet countenance of the cousin 
already eliciting from his heart a jealous coho of Cocotte’s evo- 
cations of — “Marcus, old fellow! Marcus, Marcus!” 

What Avould he not have given to have called cousins with 
such an angel ! — 


216 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

At the appointed moment, Lady Davenport and her daughter 
quitted Ilford Castle with the deepest regret. For it was no 
longer the Ilford of other days. It sent no more prize cattle to 
the Smithfield show ; nor claimed premiums for uneatable poul- 
try. But thanks to tlie subdivision of farms and allotments of 
land to tlio new cottages, contentment, which follows successful 
industry like its shadow, was beginning to establish itself where 
“ curses not loud but deep” had been overlieard, for the last half 
century by the recording angel. 

But it was not alone because the place afforded them such in- 
teresting and healtliful occupation, that they dreaded to leave it. 
In London, they must be in a great measure deprived of the so- 
ciety of that best of sons and brothers, who was now their con- 
stant companion ; seeking their aid and counsel not only in his 
domestic arrangements, but in his plans for bettering the condition 
of the hundreds of human beings committed to his guardianship. 

In London, a home awaited them darkened by painful remi- 
niscences. Even the prospect of rejoining the beloved companion 
of her youth, the Avidow and child of her lost brother, did not 
reconcile Lady Davenport to the idea of the gloomy drawing- 
room in Spring Gardens, with its mournful associations with her 
departed husband and banished son. 

She said nothing to Hugh upon the subject. For he was one 
of those who seem to hold the charter of life on the privilege of 
averting every grievance from the paths of his fellow-creatures ; 
and she feared he would sympathize too painfully in her uneasy 
feelings. 

But on arriving in Hew Street, she saw how insufficiently she 
l)ad estimated his kindliness of heart. The family mansion of 
Hugh, Lord Davenport, retained scarcely a vestige of the family 
mansion of his predecessor. It was to watch over the progress 
of its metamorphosis, that he had visited London in November ; 
and now, all was as perfect as could be desired to welcome the 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


217 


best of mothers. Brick had become stooe, and gloom cheerful- 
ness. ISTo more dark corners. No more ill-ventilated rooms. 
The old official-seeming library, furnished with oak and dark green 
velvet, opened through a small conservatory into the park ; and 
the meagre den once apportioned to its present lord, was not only 
enriched by the treasures of art removed from Captain Davenport’s 
lodgings, but lavishly supplied wdth all the inventions by which 
modern luxury endeavours to enervate the manhood of our sol- 
diers, and hardihood of our fox-hunters. 

But it was in the drawing-rooms that Lord Davenport’s taste 
had been chiefly exercised. An entrance had been opened be- 
tween them, divided only by jiortieres ; and glossy chintz sup- 
plied the place of faded damask. Musical instruments of the 
first order were provided for Olivia ; new book-cases, supplied 
with all the meritorious books of the day, for his mother. Noth- 
ing sumptuous, — nothing showy. All was pleasant for use ; all 
calculated to efface from the mind of Lady Davenport and her 
daughter, the impression that their present airy domicils had 
anything in common with their sombre dungeon of old. 

Even old Madame Winkelried had her little snuggery : with 
a bracket for her mealy old canary, and a hob for her ever-sim- 
mering cup of lime-flower tea. 

One only thing was wanting, and that, alas! was beyond the 
compass of Lord Davenport to obtain ; — the presence of Marcus. 
And it was in the deserted room of the truant that his mother 
and sister found a pretext for the tears sacred to reminiscences 
of the past ; those indelible traces, which neither paper-hangers 
nor upholsterers ever yet wholly effaced. 

“ Marcus ought to have -been here,” said Olivia, as they all 
three sat together over their wine and chestnuts, with the cloth, 
for the first time in that dining-room, unremoved, — “ to intro- 
duce us to-raorrow to the dear cousin Amy of whom he used to 
be so fond.” 

“ Nature is surely a sufficient Master of the Ceremonies where 
the tie of kinship is so close,” replied her brother. 

“ And you forgot,” sighed Lady Davenport, “ that Amy’s 
mother, at least, is no stranger. For five long years, wo were 
never an hour apart.” 


10 


218 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


And as slie involuntarily reverted to the approaching reunion 
of two hearts between which the waters of t^irife had so long 
been interposing, as roaring waves now disunite the congenital 
shores of England and France, it was impossible not to recur to 
tlie lines of Coleridge, so prized by Scott and Byron, but now 
hackneyed by perpetual citation, — 

“They stood aloof, the scars remaining, 

Like cliffs which had been rent assunder 
A dreary sea now flows between, 

But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder, 

Shall wholly do away I ween 

The marks of that which once hath been.” 

They had parted young, blooming, sanguine, full of trust in 
human nature. They were about to meet, worn by long suffer- 
ing, distrustful, discouraged not only by the influence of the 
past, but by misgivings touching the future welfare of their 
children. The blossoms on the Tree of Life had fallen ; the 
half-developed fruit seemed already sickening. 

When they met on the morrow, however, the lapse of time 
was for a moment forgotten. They were in each other’s arms ; 
they were again Mary and Gertrude ; — they were the mothers 
of promising children, who were to each other as near of kin, 
as exists short of brother and sisterhood. 

IIow much they had mutually to confide! Yet so it was that 
the lips of both Avere sealed 1 Neither could relate domestic 
troubles in which the nearest and dearest to the other had exer- 
cised so large a part. 

Between Amy and Olivia, hoAvever, there existed no such 
drawback. They sans 2:)eur et sans reproche ; with as utter 
incapability of evil' feeling or evil thought, as between two 
flowers blooming side by side in the sunshine. An additional 
year of worldly experience imparted to Amy something of a 
graver aspect than Avas perceptible Avith the child-like fairness of 
OliAua Davenport; invested by education Avith the nauete Avhich, 
in German nature, is compatible with the highest order of intel- 
lectual cultivation. Olivia’s joys and griefs called forth her 
tears and smiles as spontaneously as the hours on the dial are 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


•219 


revealed by a sunbeam: — and she fancied she could not too 
often express to her new cousin how warmly she was prepared 
to love her; how favorably she had been described to them by 
Marcus ; and how eagerly her brother Hugh desired to make 
her acquaintance. 

Amy said less in return. She trusted perhaps less largely 
than of old to cousinly enthusiasm. 

“ Hugh did not see you when he visited Aunt Meadowes in 
the autumn?” said she. “You were ill or absent — ill, probably, 
for I am sure you never leave your sick mother.” 

Amy remembered only too bitterly the cause which confined 
her to her room during the visit of her cousin Hugh. 

“ But now, we shall be constantly together,” resumed the af- 
fectionate girl. “ The mourning which keeps strangers out of 
our house will only bring us closer together. You do not know, 
-^you cannot believe — how often I and my brothers have talked 
over all this, and how I have looked forward to this happy day !” 

It was impossible to acknoAvledge such overtures with less tlian 
an affectionate embrace; and the two mothers seemed to see their 
own youth revived in the mutual cordiality of their children. 

“ Amy, darling,” said Lady Meadowes, when the mother and 
daughter were once more alone together, “ do you remember, at 
Meadowes Court, sighing after a cousin or two, — a Lucy and 
Haney Selby, — to make friends of, and correspondents?” 

“ I do, I do ! Just when poor Miss Honeywood left us, and 
I w'as beginning to fancy mj^self a little lonely.” 

“You are satisfied now, then, my child? Two cousins of 
your own age — ” 

“ And two such cousins!” interrupted Amy, “ so kind, so beauti- 
ful, so clever.” 

“ So diffbrent too, that their several claims on your friendship 
wull not clash.” 

“ I think, mamma, I shall love Olivia most ; but most admire 
and respect my cousin Mary.” 

“ need to compare them, — no need to analyse,” replied 
Lady Meadowses. “The affection arising from natural ties should 
never be searchingly examined. By handling the butterfly too 
closely, the lustre of its beautiful wings is brU'-hed away.” 

A few days afterwards. Lady Davenport came to fetch her in- 


220 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


valid sister-in-laAV to pass the day with them in Spring Gardens : 
and, for the first time, Amy was introduced into the interior of a 
first-rate London house. Neither Meadowes Court nor Radens- 
ford Manor afforded her the remotest idea of Avhat is to he effect- 
ed for domestic comfort by the union of wealth and good taste. 
Everything she saw delighted her. But what gratified her most 
Avas the solicitude for the Avell-being of his family evinced by her 
cousin Hugh. 

By a mere chance. Lord Davenport Avas absent; haAung profit- 
ed by his Parliamentary Wednesday holiday, to visit some farms 
in Buckinghamshire, — the only portion of his estate Avhich, since 
his accession to his fortune, he had left unexamined. But his 
absence Avas not regretted. They felt more completely at home 
together, for the absence of broadcloth from their little circle. 

Amy was introduced to Marcus’s pleasant back-room, that she 
might admire the celebrated Himalayan landscape, of which h?s 
family were so proud. 

“ Beautiful, — most beautiful !” exclaimed Miss Meadowes, 
standing entranced before one of the noblest delineations of 
mountain scenery she had ever beheld. “ This must be the pic- 
ture Avliich my cousin Mary saAV at Captain Davenport’s house, 
and described as so admirable !” 

Olivia, a little surprised that any female cousin of her cousin 
should have been a visitor at her brother’s lodgings, paused a 
moment; then, too courteous to express her wonder, reverted to 
Mark. 

“ He was so fond of yon, Amy !” said she. “ Do you knoAv I 
used sometimes feel a little jealous, Avhen he was talking about 
you. I was afraid he was beginning to love you better than 
myself. For I Avas only his sister by birth right , — you by elec- 
tion. I fancied I should have better liked to be the chosen one!” 

So perhaps thought poor Amy. But the chosen one of Mark 
Avas neither sister nor cousin. 

“ It seems so strange, does it not, his never Avriting to us ;” 
resumed Olivia. “ so devoted to my mother, — so kind -to me I 
— Something seems to have changed him in a moment. Hugh 
endeavours to cheer us by assurances that he must return in 
April. On the plea of ill-health, he has paired off* till then. But 
afterAvards, his Parliamentary duties Avill imperatively’ recall him.” 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


221 


“ He may ])erliaps re ign h’s scat,” said Amy Meadowes, in a 
low voice, still examining the pictine. 

“I think not. Ho would do nothing to give pain to Daven- 
port, who has set his whole heart upon Marcus’s success in the 
House.” 

Amy said no more. vShe had not found Captain Davenport 
ea'.ily swayed to a purpose on which others had set their hearts, 
utiless it happened to square with his own. He was not the man 
to sacrifice himself or his inclinations. Hut she allowed Olivia 
to prattle on, unchecked, in his praise. 

There was one person, however, with whom Amy Meadowe'^ 
often found herself in company who seldom neglected an oppor- 
tunity of disparaging this absent cousin: her uncle llargood. 
Perhaps because, under his sister’s roof, he was tired of hearing 
Aristides called the Just ; perhaps because anxious that no one 
'should imagine him capable of regretting the loss of an aristo- 
cratic son-in-law ; perhaps because his vocation, Avhich now 
hung upon his shoulders like second nature — or a little, perhaps, 
like the robe of Nessus, inspired him with an irretrievable habit 
of criticism ; — perhaps, tell it not in Gath, nor even widsper it 
in Soho — perhaps because his nature had just been scarified by 
passing through the savage ordeal of Christmas bills: that epoch 
when the gap which defies the best endeavors of people of small 
and precarious incomes to make both ends meet, is so apt to 
neutralize the promises of peace and good will towmrds men, 
which ought to sanctify the primal festival of the Christian year. 

Certain it was that the arrival in town of the Davenports and 
the frequent mention of their name he w'as compelled to hear, 
stirred up bitterness in his soul. It is true that in consequence 
of their claims on his sister, he saw much less of her. She was 
often in Spring Gardens. The carriage of Lady Davenport, 
whom he scrupulously avoided meeting, w’^as stationed at the 
door w'henever he called in Golden Square ; her Ladyship’s two 
tall footmen in their morning suits, stationed there like mutes, 
to dignify the funeral of its departed sociability. His republican 
spirit — that is the spirit wdjich he fancied was republican — chafed 
against this display. He fancied that his sister had too easily 
abdicated her self-respect, by snatching at the tardy olive-branch 
tendered by “ these aristocrats.” And he used to go homo after 


222 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


his disnppointment of a chat with her, as mortified as poor 
Oliver Guldsinith when lie saw public attention diverted from 
him by a company of dancing dogs. 

“ Sprighted by a fool,” in the person of Hamilton Drewe, 
whose officious patronage not even the brutality of llargood 
could extinguish after he had ascertained, according to his own 
romantic version of the fact, “by how charming a Miranda the 
solitude of Pros[>ero was lightened,” and irritated to find his 
leniency towards his sister’s past offences lost in the blaze of 
Lady Davenport’s earnest attachment, he would go home and 
reproach poor Mary with the staleness of his bread, or toughness 
of his mutton chops — the un punctuality of the laundress or 
smallness of the coals — as if he were Lear, and herself the 
Goneril who grudged and diminished the quality of his meagre 
entertainment. 

On such occasions, Mary answered him never a word. She 
would have scorned to be taunted out of her self-govei*nment by 
a father who, in addition to the spirit-wearing duty of grinding 
Iris bones and brains to make their bread, was undergoing the 
humiliation so galling to a proud spirit, of being dunned by the 
botching tailor who supplied dotlies to his boys. 

But though patient and resigned, she never allowed herself to 
soothe his perturbed spirit by joining in his diatribes against the 
aristocratic ])retensions of the Davenports. She would not be 
the confederate of his injustice. Conscious of the happy 
influence exercised over her own somewhat rugged nature by 
the mildness of Lady Meadowes and sweetness of Amy, she ad- 
mitted that the courtesy of high-breeding was only a grace the 
more superadded to solid virtues. As to believing that her aunt 
or cousin loved her a jot the less because they were the frequent 
guests of a nobler family with which they were as closely con- 
nected as with herself, she would as soon have suspected them of 
petty larceny. But she grieved over her father’s prejudice 
against the Davenports less as a source of disunion between the 
families, than as an evidence of pitiable narrowness of mind. 

Mary heard without a pang her cousin Amy’s praises of the 
family. She could not be jealous of them as she had been when 
she found herself robbed of her birthright, by her father’s mo- 
mentary preference of Amy. It pleased her to hear of their 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


223 


sa3'ings and doings : of the zeal with which old Madame Wink- 
elried had undertaken to overlook the German lessons given by 
Olivia to Miss Meadowes ; of the fondness testified towards Amy 
by her cousin Hugh, who had adopted Iier at once as a second 
sister, and brought home no cadeau for Olivia, unless accompa- 
nied with a fac-simile for her cousin. 

■ It is true that, not being an eye-witness of his perfectly 
straightforward attentions, Mary Ilargood fell into the mistake 
which, for a moment, misled the not very perspicacious mind of 
Lady Meadowes ; tliat Lord Davenport was not- unlikely to 
repay by an attachment to the daughter, the injuries wdiich his 
father had wantonly inflicted on the mother. But there was no 
indication on Amj^’s part of sharing their error. She was 
charmed with her cousin Hugh ; with his humanity — his noble- 
ness — his amenity. Slie accepted his gifts w’ith gratitude; and 
would thankfully have called him brother. But the cry of her 
heart w'as still like that of Cocotte — “Marcus — ^Marcus!” 


CHAPTEPw XXX. 

“Tell me, my dear Davenport,” said Lord Curt de Clmxley, 
throwing himself, uninvited, on the red morocco cushion of a 
wdndow-seat in the lobby of the House of Lords, where the young 
peer sat w’aiting for the close of one of those replies to a reply 
cignifying notliing, as regarded the charge against Government, 
which w'as extending the dreary waste of a heavy debate ; “ who 
were those two beautiful creatures in your mother’s carriage, 
this morning, -when it w’as stopping at Maurigy’s hotel ?” 

“ Is Lady Curt de Cruxley in small health, that you make the 
inquiry with so much emotion ?” replied Lord Davenport, not a 
little amused by the springy vivacity of the grey haired lei esprit. 

“ Ho ! I ask the question in behalf of my son and heir,- who 
will 8r)on be in the remove.” 

“ One of the beautiful creatures, then, was my sister, not yet 
out ; the other, if it was not my sister’s old German governess, 
must have been Miss Meadowes.” 

“ ^Yhat Meadowes ? Anything to an old horror of a Sir Jervis 


224 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


Meadowe?, a Bedfordshire neighbour of ours, who commands our 
detestable militia; the last of the Pipeclays, and greatest of bores, 
— wlio can’t address one without my-lording one like a tinker ?” 

“Iliave not much acquaintance among tinkers,” said Daven- 
port, laughing, “ Sir Jervis is my distant cousin. Yon, who 
might go up for examination in Lodge’s Peerage, ought to know 
tliat my mother -was a Meadowes. The angel you are bespeak- 
ing for your son, is her niece.” 

“I wish you would give it me all in writing. Pedigrees, 
whether of man or horse, wear my memory to tatters. But what 
has all this to do with some swampery — Meadowes Marsli or 
Meadowes Spring, — I forget wliat, — that Billy Eustace has hired 
on the banks of the Severn ?” 

“ If you mean Meadowes Courts in Gloucestershire, it was the 
seat of my late uncle Sir Mark Meadowes, and is now the pro- 
perty of his heir-at-law. Sir Jervis.” 

“True, very true. One keeps forgetting these things,” said 
Lord Curt, — a man who never forgot anything except himself. 
“ Eustace has been horribly cut up by an escapade in his imma- 
culate family. One of those well-drilled daughters of Lady 
Louisa’s, to escape from the maternal rattan, eloped lately with 
something in a fustian jacket and leather gaiters I” 

“ I was in hopes the story was exaggerated,” said Lord Daven- 
port. “ Lady Louisa and my mother are old friends; and the 
Eustaces are people whose intentions are far better than their 
judgment.” 

“ Which is saying little for their intentions. To my thinking, 
they are people who ought to be suppressed by act of parliament : 
or at all events, condemned to hard labour a peri^Huite at their 
family seat. If chimneys can be made to consume their ow’n 
smoke, why should not counties be made to consume their own 
bores?” 

“ William Eustace, so far from being a bore is — ” 

“ A prig of the first magnitude. Granted ! We w'ero all sor- 
ry for him, however, when this sister of his stooped to dilute 
the blood of all the Eustaces with ditch-w^ater. As to himself, 
poor fellow, he seems to have disguised himself in his queerest 
Mackintosh, and taken the longest line to be found in his Brad- 
shaw. Eor ho has never been heard of since the event.” 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


225 


It is true, I have not seen so much as his card since I return- 
ed to town,” said Lord Davenport, inu'^ingly. 

“I never touch a card!” was his companion’s rejoinder, in 
tlie mincing tone of an elderly spinster, pressed to the whist- 
table. “ But I saw Billy, t’other day : — where was it? — buying 
a benefit-ticket for Exeter Hall, — or cheapening tracts at Riving- 
tons’, — or early clover-seed at the Agricultural Society, — or com- 
mitting some other outrage that may become a country gentlemnn.” 

“ Surel}",”. said Davenport, “he spoke the other night on the 
Game-law Question ?” 

“In the interests, of course, of his new brother-in-law !” 

“ Don’t be merciless. Curt. Remember you have daughters of 
your own !” 

“ I wish I could forget it. But as my daughters are not im- 
mured from the society of gentlemen and ladies, they are accus- 
tomed to regard gamekeepers et hoc in the same light as sheep 
or oxen.” 

gagez pas! — ‘Frailty, thy name is woman!’” replied 
Davenport, recalling to mind how, at one of Lord Curt’s con- 
certs, he liad noticed the singular intimacy between the Honour- 
able Sophronia Curt, and a handsome young Venetian Tenor. 

“ How goes the debate ? VTio’s up ?” suddenly demanded the 
Honourable Sophronia’s father, catching the sleeve of one of a 
couple of elderly gentlemen, who, at that moment went chuckling 
past. 

“ Lord Rumbleman’s up, and Burnsey is to follow. He's gone 
to ginger himself with a glass or two of sherry, and if you mean 
to hear him. Curt, I advise you to quadruple the dose,” said the 
sleeve-held man, shaking off his interrnptor. 

“ There go two political swindlers, if ever there lived one since 
the days of Sir Robert Walpole !” ejaculated Curt, as they pro- 
ceeded along the lobby. “ Confederates in jobbery, who back 
each other’s accommodation-bills, to raise the public wind ! One 
forges the lie against Government, which t’other endorses ; and 
both, though honest men in private life, consider any amount of 
roguery meritorious, which purports to unseat the administra- 
tion. How are you, my dear duke ! When did you come to 
town ? — 


10 * 


226 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


* To show our eyes and grieve our heart, 

Come like a slow coach, — so depart.’ ” 

added be, in a stage whisper, as liis Grace after having shaken 
Ills extended finger, rolled ponderously on, like a mountain in 
labour. “Ila! Madgrnan ! IIow are you? Pilled, I’m sorry 
to hear, at Brookes’s ! Your own fault, my dear fellow ! You 
ought to have had your name up three years ago, while you 
were still a dark horse, instead of a detected ass,” added he, in 
the same d parte tone, when the young Viscount had nodded 
and disappeared. 

For some minutes more did the epigrammatic Curt extend 
his pleasant observations to friend and foe ; sporting with the 
most malicious scandals, as the serpent-cliarmers of Egypt, or 
bathers at Schlangenbad, twist as})s in playful coils round their 
fingers. 

But Lord Davenport, who had no taste for such pastimes, rose 
from his seat, to avoid further “ asides,” and made his way into 
the body of the House. 

A few days after this conversation, the young lord, on enter- 
ing Lady Meadowes’s drawing-room, to confer with her touch- 
ing some family news he had just learned from his mother, found 
seated beside her work-table, a grave or rather a severe-looking 
man, who after surveying him with a scrutinizing eye, but no 
acknowledgment or salutation, took up his hat abrupth", and, 
with a slight nod to the lady of the house, prepared to leave the 
room. 

A glance of surprise towards Lady Meadowes, produced b}’’ 
the uncourteousness of the stranger, induced her to whisper in 
explanation: ‘*My brother, Mr. Hargood.” 

Lord Davenport started up : and, in a moment, was between 
the retreating gentleman and the door. 

“ I owe you a thousand excuses for not remembering your 
features, Mr. Hargobd,” said he, “ for which this,” pointing to 
the eye glass at his button-hole, “ must be my apology: 1 am, 
very near-sighted. We have met before, in a public, if not pri- 
vate capacity.” 

Hargood, surveying him with much such an expression as his 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


227 


Puritan ancestor may have worn wiiile addressing one of the 
maliguants of Charles Stuart, made a scarcely perceptible inclina- 
tion of the head. 

“ If I might take so great a liberty on so slight an acquain- 
tance,” resumed Lord Davenport, still cutting off the retreat of 
the surly fugitive, “I would venture to request you and your 
daughter to partake of a family dinner with Lady Meadowes and 
my cousin Amy on Wednesday next. My plea for such an in- 
vitation, without the formal preliminary of a visit to your house, 
is having just heard with great regret, from my mother, that 
Lady Meadowes is on the point of leaving town. You will natu- 
rally wish to see the most of our friends during the short rem- 
nant of their stay.” 

“I flatter myself, my lord,” replied Hargood, stiffly, “that the 
arguments I have been using with my sister will sufflee to deter 
her from this projected visit to Radensford.” Saying which, he 
returned towards the place he had quitted, as if to satisfy him- 
self of the issue of the debate. 

“ Xo, brother — my plans are fully settled,” replied Lady Mea- 
dowes, with a gentle yet determined countenance. I Avill, if you 
please, make my nephew umpire in the case.” 

“ Do not expect to find me an upright judge,” replied Lord 
Davenport, cheerfully, “ on any question that involves the loss 
of your society.” 

“ I do expect it— nay, I am certain of it, my dear Hugh,” 
replied his aunt. “ My brother cannot be persuaded that my 
intended visit to Radensford Rectory has not its origin in a natu- 
ral yearning after the neighborhood in which I spent so many 
happy years. That I long to see dear Meadowes Court again, it 
would be idle to deny. Still less that, after an absence of nearly 
a year and a half from the real country, I do not feel that Amy 
and myself would be the better for its restorative influences.” 

“ Sheer nonsense,” muttered Hargood. “ To revive associa- 
tions, better forgotten ! Your health was always ailing at Mea- 
dowes Court!” 

Her nephew was disposed to listen more patiently to the end 
of her ladyship’s explanations ; and it was to him, consequently, 
she now addressed them. 

“ I received yesterday, my dear Hugh, a letter from onr friend. 


228 


PHOGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


Mrs. Burton, written in great affliction. Her only child has been 
condemned by tlie Brigliton physicians, unless she can bo imme- 
diately transported to a milder climate ; and they are to depart 
in the next Peninsular steamer for the coast of Spain.” 

“ Far better remain quietly at home. Change of climate 
never yet cured a consumptive patient,” pronounced Ilargood 
with the self-constituted authority of a President of the College 
of Physicians. 

“Mrs. Burton’s father, who was on the point of Joining her 
at Brighton, will thus be left alone in his rectory. You do nob 
'know this father, Hugh; or you would understand the 
urgency of his claims upon me. Inquire of your mother what 
Mr. Henderson was, even during her girlhood at Meadowes 
Court. But the interim of thirty years has converted all that 
was excellent into all that is venerable ; and during that interim, 
what has he not been to me! Instructor, protector, pastor, 
friend! From the day of Amy’s birth, ho seemed to love her 
as his child; and from the trying moment of my husband’s 
death, became a guardian to us both. He is now considerably 
past fourscore — iufirm and feeble ; and, long accustomed to the 
watchfulness of a female companion, his daughter’s absence 
would I am sure prove fatal to him, unless I accepted the duty 
she has charged me with, to fill her place at tlie rectory. Can I 
refuse ?” - • 

“Certainly w'as Lord Davenport’s unhesitating reply. 

“ Go, dearest aunt, and God speed your errand. I have not a 
•word to urge against it.” 

Hargood remained contemptuously silent. His over-rational 
view of the things of this life suggested that beneficed clerg}’-- 
men long past fourscore, are belter disposed of sleeping in their 
chancels, than in tlieir pulpits ; — and Mr. Henderson’s house- 
keeper would administer his camomile tea and water gruel quite 
as punctually as Dame Mary Meadowes. 

“ And since that point is settled,” continued Lord Davenport, 
having been rewarded by a grateful smile from his aunt, “ I 
trust, Mr, Hargood, you will concede to my previous request. 
Lady Meadowes, who disposes of my mother’s carriage, will I 
am sure be delighted to call for you and Miss Hargood, on their 
way to Spring Gardens.” 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


229 


This good-natured offer — regarded by Hargood as a piece of 
impertinent patronage, lest a liack cab should be seen driving up 
to his lordship’s aristocratic residence — decided the matter. 
Already afraid of incurring the suspicion of ceding too readily 
to patrician influence, bis stubborncss now took the alarm. Up 
went the bristles of his pride. All his former approval of Lord 
Davenport’s character and abilities vanished in fumo. He saw 
in him only a lord — lord whom it was in his power to mortif^^ 

“ ISTeither my daugliter nor myself, my lord, ever dine out,” 
said he, again drawing towards the door. “We have duties 
which do not allow us the disposal of our time. Your lordship 
will be pleased to accept my thanks, and my excuses.” 

After Hargood’s final exit, Lord Davenport, with an air of 
vexation, resumed his place by Lady Meadowos. 

“A forgiving disposition, I am sorry to see, dear aunt, is not 
universal in your family,” was his only comment. “ Mr. Hargood 
still owes us a grudge.” 

“ You mistake him, I fancy. You mistake him I hope. But 
my brother is a man of strong prejudices ; and it would be diffi- 
cult to persuade him that persons of his class and yours ever 
meet without an abdication of dignity on both sides. Hay, not 
without real injury; like the encounter of the iron and earthen 
pot — in which the frailer vessel is sure to suffer.” 

“ I don’t think he had much to fear, either from myself, my 
mother, or little Olivia,” said Lord Davenport, laughing. “ How- 
ever, a wilful man must have his way. A wilful woman, too, 
I’m afraid : — since, in spite of all our prayers, you leave us so 
soon as Thursday next. Well, well — I will say no more, I ad- 
mit, though reluctantly, that for once your obstinacy is praise- 
worthy.” 

Throughout the remainder of the morning, however, after 
completing his arrangements with Lady Mcadowes, Lord Daven.- 
port kept recurring with deep regret to the discourtesy of Har- 
good. He had it deeply at heart to obtain a second view of the 
striking girl who had made so deep an impression on his mind. 
But independent of Maiy, he set a due value on Hargood him- 
self ; as a mine of information and a man on whose word, as a 
public journalist, implicit reliance might be placed. Lord 
Davenport had not been moving for the last ten years in even a 


230 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


lower walk of political life, without appreciating the value of 
this distinction. lie was aware that, as regards those whose 
eyes are ever fixed upon goverinnental machinery, and ■v\hos6 
pens perpetuallv pointed to record its movements, 

Old experience doth attain 
To something like prophetic vein ; 

and, however distasteful to him the brusquerie of Hargood’s 
manners, he felt that his counsel .rnigl it often prove invalua- 
ble. 

Moved either by the first or second of these considerations, 
he left a card the following day at his door ; too delicate and 
conscientious to attempt to force an entrance during the absence 
of the master of the house, like his impetuous brother, or the 
tactless Hamilton Drewe. 

If his overtures were met with tolerable civility, he intended 
to renew his attempt at drawing the Ilargoods to his house. 
But previous to taking any further steps, he determined to refer 
the question to his dearest friend and best adviser, — his excellent 
mother. 

In relating his story, he concealed nothing. Most men coun- 
sel advice, unless from their lawyer or physician, reserve some 
single point which invalidates the advice they receive. But 
Hugh was too honest and too wise for any weakness of the 
kind; and the result was that Lady Davenport was equally in- 
genuous. 

“ Hothing have I more at heart,” said she, “ than that you 
should marry the moment you find a wife to your mind. But 
there are few I should more dislike for a daughter-in-law, than 
Mr. Hargood’s daughter. Hot for her own sake, — for I have 
heard the highest praise of her from Amy and her mother. Hot 
because she is a professional artist ; for beyond the small circle 
of her family, that circumstance has never transpired. But on 
account of her father’s odious temper, and despicable prejudices. 
It was entirely Mr. Ilargood’s hot-headed interference that in- 
spired my poor mother and your father with their unreasonable 
detestation of the whole family.” 

“I can say little, alas I in praise of his manners or disposi- 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


231 


tion,” replied her son. “ Hargood is not improved since the 
days you speak of. The angi-y boy of twenty, has become the 
surly man of fifty. He has learned and forgotten nothing : not 
having mixed enough in society to have his prejudices pumniiced 
down by the friction of the world.” 

“ At the same time,” returned his mother, “ so deeply, — so 
•eery deeply, — am I impressed with the necessity of perfect sym- 
pathy of character to insure the happiness of married life, that, 
had you seen enough of Mary Hargood, my dear son, to feel cer- 
tain of your preference, I would overlook every obstacle and 
welcome her warmly as a daughter-in-law.” 

“ I have had but a glimpse of her, — enough to decide me that 
her person is all I most admire. But if countenance, — if voice, 
— if deportment go fur anything, Mary Hargood’s disposition 
must be as faultless as lier style of beauty is noble.” 

“ Trust not to specious appearances, my dearest Hugh.” 

“ I do not^ mother,” cried he ; “ for which reason, I am here 
to consult you. I may not find the wife of my choice in Lady 
Meadowes’s niece. But in what is called society, — that is, in my 
own class of life, — I have sought and sought, and met with no- 
thing but disgusts.” 

“ Yet several times, since you left Oxford, I have fancied you 
what is called in love ?” 

“ Often, — ofrener perhaps than you are aware of. I am no 
stoic, to be proof against the spells of a lovely face or winning 
manner. But what has been the result? That I have followed 
these charmers from ball-room to ball-room, through tliose de- 
testable wife-markets of the London Season which almost put to 
shame the slave-markets it has cost us so many millions to sup- 
press ; till I have blushed for myself and the objects of my pur- 
suit. What have I found, mother, in those stifling mobs, to 
reward me for submitting to be elbowed, suffocated, and wearied 
out of all patience ? Insipid platitudes or audacious bantering, 
from those in whom I was seeking a gentle intelligent companion 
for my fireside ! Be just, dear mother. Can these over-dressed 
dolls, whose sole object in life seems to be to whirl about, night 
after night, in over-lighted, over-heated rooms, be expected to 
subside at once into rational beings, — into wives and mothers, — 
devoted like myself to a country life ? I could not, — no, I tould 


232 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


not, entrust my lionour and happiness to the keeping of such 
giddy puppets!” 

Lady Davcnj)ort answered only h}’ a sigli. 

“Whereas a girl accustf'ined from childhood to rational jmr- 
suits, and prepared by a life of duty and industry to find enjoy- 
ment even in enfranchisement from care, is likely to be both 
happy and grateful.” 

“ You would not, surely, dearest son, be loved as a benefac- 
tor ?” 

“ Far rather than be accepted as the gros Jot of a lottery Avon 
by some flirting girl, — the hack of the London ball-rooms.” 

“ButAvhere lies the necessity for such an alternative ?” said 
Lady Davenport, gravely. 

“The truth is, mother,” added her son, “you have spoiled me 
for female companionship. And you, so reasonable, so domestic, 
so patient, so affectionate, were married from the school-room. 
You never ran the gauntlet of May Fair flirtations, or the whis- 
pers of the crush-room ! Even thus, would I choose my Avife. 
And even thus would I fain commit Olivia, nndefiled in ear and 
eye, to the safe keeping of her husband. Such Avas my motive 
for introducing so readily, last year, William Eustace to our fire- 
side. 

“ Have you seen him lately ?” inquired Lady Davenport, con- 
sidering perhaps that they had insisted long and largely enough 
on his matrimonial projects. 

“ Not once this season. This unfortunate business in his 
family, — this unlucky mesalliance^ — has probably disinclined him 
to appear in society.” 

“ You admit, then, that a mesalliance is a thing to be ashamed 
of?” 

“ That was not spoken like yourself, mother,” replied Lord 
Davenport. “ Of course I do, Avhere the disparity regards culti- 
vation of mind. Surely you do not class a handsome game- 
keeper Avho can barely Avrite or read, in the same category Avith 
an accomplished, Avell bred Avoman?” 

“ Pre-advised as I am of the state of the case, and that her 
father is a clergyman’s son, I may judge her otherAvise. But I 
fear, my dear son, you Avill find that public opinion — ” 

“Public opinion!” interrupted Lord DaA^enport, rising iinpa- 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


233 


tientlj from her side, “leave that specious tribunal to adjudicate 
for 3mur Eustaces and Warnefords. It is not worthy of my 
mother. The time is past for responsible human beings to sacri- 
fice their children to the hateful rites of Moloch!” 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

It was a matter of unspeakable consternation to Hamilton 
Drewe, while prowling about Pulteney street, “ his custom ever 
of an afternoon,” to note the visit of Lord Davenport to Har- 
good’s lodgings; nothing doubting that his lordship was deputed 
by his brother to keep an eye upon the progress of his delegate. 
Conscious how ill he had succeeded in advancing the plans of 
Marcus, and dreading to see the return of the new M.P. 
announced in the daily papers, poor Drewe almost fretted him- 
self into a fever of terror and remorse. 

He sometimes thought of frankly seeking Lord Davenport, 
with whom he had become acquainted at his brother'’s lodgings. 
But this was in such palpable opposition to the strict secrcsy 
enjoined by his absent friend, tliat he had not courage; and 
between his fear of ]Marcus’s resentment, and his reminiscences 
of the Helena and Hermia he had beheld “ sewing at one sam- 
pler,” his mind was so troubled, that there seemed every proba- 
bility of his at length producing a poem sufficiently obscure and 
incomprehensible to be pronounced by modern critics the height 
of sublimity. 

But there were others besides the transcendental Drewe to 
Avhom the expectation of Captain Davenport’s return was a 
source of painful anxiety. His cousin Amy, though “prestige 
of his name was considerably diminished by the slight esteem 
in which she found it held by the Hargoods, as well as by the 
proverbial fact that, “ the absent are alwaj's in the wrong,” felt 
so guiltily apprehensive that her former feelings towards him 
could not have escaped his penetrating eye, as to look forward 
with the utmost repugnance to meeting him again. 

Right joyfully, therefore, had she seized the pretext afforded 
by Mrs. Burton’s letter, to urge her mother into leaving town ; 


234 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


and so benevolent a being as the Rector of Radensford would 
have rejoiced indeed could he have surmised how completely the 
seeming sacrifice made to his comfort, accorded with the earnest 
desire for retirement of the young girl he welcomed so fondly ; 
no less than with the yearning of lier widowed mother to kneel 
once more beside her husband’s grave. Even Marlow, when her 
eyes rested upon the well-clipped laurel hedge of the rectory 
garden, after so many penitential months of brick and mortar, 
could scarcely refrain from an outcry of joy. 

After folding Amy in his arms, the venerable pastor whose 
long grey locks hung down upon cheeks considerably hollowed 
by care and anxiety since their last meeting, held her back for a 
moment at arm’s length, to ascertain what changes had been 
effected by a London life in her youthful countenance. But the 
traces he had dreaded to find, were wholly wanting. The Lon- 
don which, at the same early age, had done so much to estrange 
from him the heart of his daughter, was still as much a mystery 
to Amy as when she quitted Meadowes Court. Though her 
mourning had been for six months hnd aside, not so much as a 
glimpse of the gay world had dazzled her young eye. Yet while 
the good old Rector w^as examining her sweet face, though tlie 
blush that accompanied her ready smile attested her sensibility 
to be as lively as ever, he fancied he discerned a little dimness in 
those soft hazel eyes. But w'hat wonder ? Sorrows wholly 
unconnected with what lie esteemed the besetting trial of her 
age and sex, had indeed overclouded the destiny 'of the darling 
of poor Sir Mark. 

It was no small relief to her to find that Lady Harriet was 
absent from the Manor. Mr. Henderson was of opinion that his 
old friend purposely prolonged her absence, from reluctance to 
meet the neiglibors before whom she had so pompously paraded 
the standard of her family immaculac}", which the frailty of her 
niece had now dragged down to the ordinary level of sinful 
Imman nature. 

To her nepheAv, the new tenant of Meadowes Court, ho 
refrained from all allusion; feeling that the subject must be 
unpleasing to the inmates to whom he hoped to. make the 
sojourn in his house as cheerful as was compatible with its gra- 
vity. Hor indeed, if they had questioned him, had he much to 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


235 


tell. Mr. Eustace had as yet visited the place only to superin- 
tend the progress of the workinen ; and was now settled in Lon- 
don, for the discharge of his parliamentary duties. 

Even Mary Tremenheere, Avhen she came jogging with the 
deaf old Admiral to administer vapid embraces and common- 
places to her former neighbors, had nothing to whisper concern- 
ing “poor dear Lady Harriet’s nephew.” It is true that even 
her usual diluent small-talk was in some degree suspended witli 
wonder at seeing Amy lovely and light-hearted as ever, though 
still Miss Meadowes. 

“ It is a great comfort to have you and your dear mother here 
again, Amy,” said she, in her usual querulous accents; “for 
this neighborhood is not what it was, my dear, nor ever will be, 
I sadly fear, again. In the first place, Meadowes Court is as 
good as lost to us. That supercilious Mr. Eustace, whom they 
used to call Young Vapid, never makes his appearance; and 
w’hen he comes at last, will probably fill the house* with disre- 
putable broken-down men of fashion. Then, poor dear Rachel 
Burton, between little Sophy’s increased illness and increased 
fortune, seems so pre-occupied that she cannot command a lei- 
sure hour for rational conversation. As to poor dear Lady Har- 
riet, Radensford has probably seen the last of her!” 

“We must try and make amends to you, during our visit here, 
for all you have lost,” said Amy, good-humouredly. “ The last 
two years have indeed effected sad changes for us all.” 

Of the changes effected in her old home, Amy took an early 
opportunity of judging. Tlie first time Mr. Henderson succeeded 
in persuading Lady Meadowes to accompany him in a gentle airing 
in the pony phaeton sent down to him by Rachel on her first 
visit to town, Amy persuaded Marlow to bear her company, 
across the forest to Meadowes Court. 

The spring was in its best of beauty. Green leaves bursting 
on every tree, — birds carolling on every branch, — squirrels flitting 
from bough to bough, — the ground covered as by a snowshower, 
with white anemones, — the moss pretending to blossom and 
spread as if, on forest ground, it Avere no longer a Aveed or an in- 
truder. How she enjoyed the freshness and verdure, from Avliich 
she had been so long estranged! Hoav heartily did she join in 
the exclamation of poor old Mario av — Ah ! Miss Amy, darling, 


230 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


tliere warn’t nothing compare-ahle with this in smoky Lnnnon.” 
“ ISTay, my mind misgives me, Marlow,” sl»e added, “ tliat Mrs. 
Burton will find no purer or more wholesome air for poor liitlc 
Sophy, in the climate to which she is conveying her.” 

Perhaps while Marlow was venting her philosophy on the 
“ foolishness of dragging sick folks away from tlieir comfortable 
homes to die among strangers,” Amy's discursive imagination 
might be roaming still further. But both she and her attendant 
pursued their way in silence, each absorbed in affecting recollec- 
tions connected with the surrounding landscape. 

At last, towering over the rugged, slag-horned trees of the 
forest, appeared the noble line of the beechen avenue of Mea- 
dowes Court; like a well-drilled brigade drawn u}) in line, after 
an irregular skirmish of sharp-shooters. They looked like 
friends, those dear old trees; and Amy stood still to salute 
them with looks of love ; then pursued her way onwards, — wln^, 
why could she no longer say homewards, — with a heavy and 
more deliberate step than before. 

When the house itself came in sight, she held lier breath for 
anguish. Thankful was she to find it looking so different from 
its days of old. Plate-glass windows, each of a single pane, and 
the well laid out French garden, surrounding the house in place 
of the old moat, had as completely changed its outline, as the 
careful cleansing of the mossy stone walls, its complexion. It 
was now a cheerful modern residence ; less venerable, but far 
more attractive. 

“ I am glad, after all,” thought Amy, “ that Mr. Eustace 
took the place. Sir Jarvis is not rich enough to have done all 
this ; and had I found it as it used to be, and myself a stranger 
within its gates, it would have broken my heart. This Mea- 
dowes Court is not the one I loved so well.” 

Still, Amy gently proceeded, leaving her companion loitering 
behind. When within a very short distance of the hall-door, 
however, she stopped short, as if paralyzed. Could she believe 
lier eyes? Old Blanche, — old Sting, — basking on the door-step ; 
who, on recognizing her, darted forward to overpower her with 
rough caresses, just as they used in days of old ! 

Oh I how she missed the liearty laugh that used to encourage 
their uproarious proceedings ;— the kindly smile which used to 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


237 


beam upon lier from the doorway ! No dear father, now I 
The very dogs, by their winning response to her endearments, 
seemed trying to remind her that some one was absent, who 
would never return to caress them again. 

She could not but wonder how the poor animals, crouching at 
her feet, came to be on the spot. Tor at her departure. Lady 
Meadowes had bestowed them on Manesty the keeper, with a 
sufficient gratuity to ensure their being taken care of for life. 
But a moment afterwards, her astonishment was completed by 
seeing Manesty himself emerge from the house , — minus only the 
tanned leggings and shot-belt of former days. 

AVhat joy to the old man when he saw on whom the dogs 
were fawning! It was as much as he could do to refrain from 
placing his hand upon her head and bestowing his blessing on 
dear Miss Amy ; and it was as much as Amy could do to refrain 
from resting her head upon his shoulder, to conceal her bursting 
tears. Manesty, her father’s foster-brother, seemed a portion of 
her father’s self. 

His tale was soon told, when she became composed enough 
to listen. He and his wife had been re-engaged from the first 
by the new tenant ; and were, during his absence, custodians of 
the house. 

“ So that you can take me round the place, Manesty, without 
fear of interruption ?” 

“ Ay sure, Miss Amy. Proud and glad ’ll be my ould ’oman 
to show you over the ould ’ouse.” 

Saving for the five minutes required to tie on a clean white 
apron, and her Sunday cap, Mrs. Manesty lost no time in obeying 
the summons of her husband, whom Amy had despatched in the 
interim to fetch and re-assure poor Marlow. 

“ It seems as if master wouldn’t be much here. Miss Mea- 
dowes,” said the old lady, who insisted upon throwing open 
every nook and crany ; “ n for if you’ll believe me. Miss, he’s 
never yet slep’ in the ’ouse. Howsever, he’s got one-and-twenty 
year afore him ; so he may take his time and pleasure.” 

Miss Meadowes was soon engaged in admiring the simple and 
well-selected furniture of the drawing-room — chintz and maple 
wood only, but of the newest and best patterns, and wearing as 
yet their gloss of newness. In the “ eating room ” and library, 


238 


P-ROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


on the contrary, all was rich and massive. But to her amaze- 
mejit, many of the old family pictures were restored, Eustace 
having bought up all he could recover from the auciion Avhich 
had formerly taken place, and lie had also been at great pains 
and expense to make the rooms look as near like their former 
selves as possible. 

Even gratified as she was, Amy was glad to get out of the 
house, and it was a relief to get into the air again. Leaving 
Marlow to maunder on with her old fellow-servants, she was off 
into the shrubberies — across the lawns — to lean once more on 
the iron-fence of the paddock as she had done on that bright June 
morning — that happy birthday — which first introduced her to 
the reader. 

“ It is as well,” mused Amy, as she once more fixed her eyes on 
the silvery bolls of the old beech trees, still leafless though ex- 
hibiting a partial tinge of green — “it is as well, perhaps, that 
William Eustace should be absent. I could not help thanking 
him. I feel really grateful, really touched by his devotedness. 
How few men are capable of such thoughtful and unselfish 
delicacy ! Least of all Mark Davenport. I should not have 
found poor Blanche and Sting at the hall door, or my foolish 
old muslin curtains re-instated, had he succeeded us at Meadowes 
Court. He calls such things ‘bosh.’ Perhaps he is right. But 
at all events things may be Ijosh^ yet exercise a wonderful in- 
fluence over the happiness of daily life.” 

A little further on, an old hunter of her father’s, which, fail- 
ing a kind master. Lady Meadowes, at her departure, had 
ordered to be shot, Avas comfortably grazing in the paddock, 

Unkempt, untrimm’d, unshorn, 

evidently kept for his own enjoyment of the hay and corn of 
this world. 

“There be good in this man!” — mused Amy. “After 
all, if was perhaps unfortunate that we had not met previous to 
my having heard the naine of my cousin Mark, and admired his 
sketches in Rachel Burton’s album.” 

She might, in that case, have been less keenly alive to Young 
Yapid’s supercilious languor of character and deportment. If. 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


239 


he had betrayed tlie smallest indication of the warmth of atta<^h- 
ment and sacrifices of which lie had now shown himself capable, 
she should most assuredly have — But it was no use ihinking 
of it now /” 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

Amy almost dreaded the prospect of meeting her mother, 
after her recent discoveries. She w^as afraid of betraying too 
much feeling in recounting to Lady Meadowes all she had seen ; 
still more afraid of raising up, by the narrative, too eager an 
advocate for 'William Eustace. 

But the moment they were alone together, before she had ' 
time to utter a. syllable, her mother threw her arms round her 
neck in an agony of tears. 

As might have been predicted, the object of Lady Meadowes’ 
drive with the good old Rector, was to visit the grave of her 
liusband, .as yet unhonoured by a tribute to his memory; and, 
leaning on Mr. Henderson’s arm, she tremblingly approached the 
spot. But what was her emotion when, liaving reached the 
chancel of Radensford church, under which lay the family vault, 
on raising 1/er eyes towards the long line of monuments record- 
ing the antiquities and virtues of the family of Meadowes, she 
beheld a handsome tablet of black and white marble, bearing 
his arms and consecrated to the memory of Sir Marcus 
Meadowes, Bart., with the dates of his birth and disease, and a 
record that he lived beloved by his family, and died respected by 
his tenants and esteemed by his neighbours. 

Such a tribute to the worth of her late husband, it haid been 
her utmost ambition to dedicate. The object of her more than 
strict economies during the preceding year, had in fact pmqiosed 
to compass an expense scarcely compatible with her straitened 
income. But as yet, the fund set apart for this sacred object 
was not half equal to the purpose. And to have been thus 
kindly anticipated ! 

She could not doubt that Sir Jervis Meadowes, indifferent as 
he had shown himself to the interests of herself and her daughter, 
had fulfilled the pious duty of completing the monumental 


240 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


record of the family honors ; and in the warmth of her gratitude, 
already extended her forgiveness to a thousand minor offences of 
the new baronet. Though he had acted shabbily in trifles, it was 
clear he had a noble heart. 

In the prayers which she had come thither to address to the 
Almighty for Ijim who slept beneath, and which now, amid her 
widow’s tears, came forth from the very depths of her heart, the 
compassionate friend who had fulfilled a kinsman’s office by 
honoring the memory of the dead, was duly remembered. 

It was long after she came forth again from the gloomy 
church into the reviving air, that the cessation of her broken 
sobs enabled her to testify to her reverend companion her deep 
sense of obligation towards Sir Jervis Meadowes. 

“We seem slrangely in the dark, dear lady,” replied Mr. 
Henderson, “if I understand you to refer to the tablet Ave have 
just visited. Sir Jervis has nothing to do with the affair. Here, 
Ave have been led to believe that it was by yourself the monu- 
ment was put up.” 

“ Would that it had been so. But you, who knoAV the limit 
of my means, will not be surprised to learn that I have been yet 
unable to economise a sufficient sum for the purpose.” 

“ It is true that Burnaby and I Avere a little startled by so 
considerable an outlay. It was, hoAvever, on your ladyship’s 
account that application Avas made to me for leave to erect the 
monument; and it was most decidedly in your name, that the 
workmen on the spot were remunerated.” 

“It is an unaccountable mystery,” said Lady MeadoAves, with 
a deep sigh ; “ and one I must make it my duty to unravel.” But 
she shrewdly suspected that Mr. Eustace, the rejected suitor of 
her daughter, Avas the one to whom she Avas indebted for this 
most delicate kindness. 

It Avas not till she found herself alone with her darling Amy, 
that Lady Meadowes gave free indulgence to the tears which 
her conflicting emotions had drawn from her heart. But not 
even to Amy did she confide how deep Avas her sorrow that the 
mere caprice of girlish levity had induced her to reject, without 
thought or investigation, a man so endoAved with noble qualities 
as the new master of Meadowes Court. 

Amy had lost him. His troth-plight with her cousin, which 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


241 


fact Lady Meadowes had learned from the good Rector, -wonld 
doubtless be proclaimed as soon as she had accomplished her 
seventeenth year, and laid aside her mourning. Olivia Daven- 
port was to be the happy mistress of that beloved Meadowes 
Court, overclouded, for so many years, by the enmity of her 
parents. Olivia was to reign and rule in a spot where she had 
once flattered herself of seeing her own dear daughter installed 
by hereditary right; where from childhood she had been loved 
and respected ; and where she might now be established by its 
master’s unbiased choice. 

But as Amy had herself said — “It -was too late! Too late! 
IIow useless to think of it now.” 

If these perplexities afforded some drawback to the enjoyment 
anticipated by Lady Meadowes and her daughter in the tranquil 
seclusion of Eadensford, and the sweetness of the bursting 
spring, the absence of Amy from London was equally regretted 
by her tw'o cousins — the aristocratic, and the plebeian. 

No Marcus had arrived, or was likely to arrive, to fill her 
place. On the contrary, he had written to Lord Davenport 
entreating him to procure a fni-ther privilege of absence, on the 
ground of ill-health ; assuring him that if the plea did not avail, 
he preferred resigning his seat, at once, to returning to London. 
And the kind Hugh, though less alarmed than his mother at the 
announcement of prolonged indisposition from one accustomed to 
consider only his own wild and wayward fancies, at the cost of 
any other person’s convenience or of his own credit, complied with 
his request. Still, after obtaining the concession, he would have 
been better pleased to feel certain that he was only gratifying a 
whim, than that illness might have some real share in detaining 
the truant. 

Nor would he have regretted perhaps that Marcus should bo 
on the spot to witness the verification of his often-repeated pro- 
phecy that Hugh, so overmastered in the Commons, w^as pitched 
to the exact diapason of the Upper House. Among his peers, 
his mild unpretending Reason was accepted with respect, though 
ungarnished with the flash eloquence, or pretentious solemnity, 
of popular mountebanks. Already, Lord Davenport w'as acquir- 
ing a name ; a name endorsed by the press, and accredited by 

11 


242 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


the public. Such honors had been hitherto alone wanting to 
stimulate him to exertion. Repressed from boyhood by his fa- 
ther, ontpassed by his younger brother, he had given up the race 
too early in the day. But already in a more genial atmosphere, 
his feelings and faculties were beginning to expand and fructify. 

“I envy you, Davenport,” William Eustace often said to liim, 
as they quitted together the House in which tliey officiated at 
the minute-Iiand and hour-hand of the same dial. “ Were I in 
the Lords, I feel that I could do something, both for myself and 
the world. But, in our House, the time is past for individual 
ambition. The atticism of Parliament has disappeared, like tlie 
colors of some fine old fresco. While it lasted, to be a good 
listener was nearly as great a distinction as to be a good speaker. 
But now, one is ashamed to listen ; unless some party crjq some 
Dumfater or Abyssinian War-boast, has given the signal that ho 
who hath ears to hear, may as well be attentive. Even this 
comes so seldom, that I wish I were out of it all.” 

“And yet, when I was one of you, which is not so long ago,’’ 
replied Lord Davenport, with a smile, “I always found that, in- 
dependent of one]s duties, the House of Commons was the plea- 
santest lounge in London ; the best club, the best party, and the 
place where more information might be picked up in a given 
time, than in any other public assembly. From a moderately 
good speaker, one learns and retains more than from a remarka- 
bly good book.” 

“Don’t talk to me about moderately good speakers!” cried 
Eustace. “Confound them all, individually and collectively! 
When the French had exhausted every other crime, they invented 
Deicide. To my thinking, the everlasting drawlers one is callqjd 
upon to endure, night after night, are accomplishing the extinc- 
tion of patriotism, without extenuating circumstances. Afcer 
listening for a couple of hours to one of Humanhaw’s speeches 
(cofferdams / call them— hollow obstacles to the tide of public 
business), I swear I am capable of voting for the Repeal of the 
Union, the Independence of Scotland, or the Emancipation of 
India ; so that chaos might come again, the Constitution be re- 
duced to immortal smash, and Humanhaw to silence !” 

Lord Davenport perceived, by the bitterness of his friend— a 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


243 


mood so much more characteristic of a Curt de Cruxley than of 
the sober-minded Eustace — that something sorely ailed him. But 
he was not sufficiently in his secrets to surmise the origin of his 
irritation, however intent on soothing it. 

“ Shall we dine together to-day at the Travellers’ ?” said he. 
“Your family, I find, are not in town this season; and mine 
have still two months unexpired of their mourning ; so that we 
are two destitute orphans ; or, shall I- lay the venue in Spring 
G-ardens, instead of in Pall Mall : what say you ?” 

“That I thankfully accept the exchange. I was in hopes 
Lady Davenport had begun to consider me, last year, so much 
one of her family, as not to feel me, even now, out of place at 
her dinner table.” 

Such was the origin of Eustace’s re-admittance into the home- 
circle of the Davenports, and which gave rise to the rumor of 
the troth-plight mentioned to Lady Meadowes by the rector of 
lladensford. He was now constantly in Hew Street. Yicinity 
to the House of Commons and intimacy Avith Hugh, had of 
course some share in his visits. What other motive rendered 
him so keenly alive to the chasm of a quiet orderly home, was 
yet to be determined. 

Somewhat late among the visitors wffio arrived to Avelcome 
Amy and her mother to Badensford Rectory, was the gruff old 
doctor from Cardington. 

“ I ought, perhaps, to have been Avith you sooner, my dear 
good lady,” said he, in ansAver to the grateful greeting of Lady 
MeadoAA'es. “But, faith and truth, I’m a little in the suds AAdth 
ye both. Yes, Miss Atny, you may raise your pretty eyebrows; 
but you, in particular, have not dealt handsomely Avith your 
poor old co-guardian.” 

Miss MeadoAves took her customary place by his side, and 
sportively demanded an explanation. 

“Well, then, if I am to state my grievances in detail, as 
though memorializing the Treasury, in the first place you make 
and unmake matches for yourself, as though I were not the first 
person to be consulted!” 

“ I can assure you dear doctor,” interposed her mother, 
“ thertf has been no question of a marriage for her.” 

“Ho popped^ I suppose you mean; for you won’t 


244 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


deny, I suppose, that all your acquaintances in Clifton were talk- 
ing of the courtship betwixt her and her soldier cousin?” 

To this Lady Meadowes contented herself by sayingt that 
“Whatever iniglit have been said or thought by their friends. 
Captain Daveni)ort was otherwise attached before he became 
acquainted with his cousin Amy. So now for the second place 
of your apology.” 

“ Well, the second reason for my procrastinated visit, does not 
exactly regard Am 3 \ To own the truth, I avoid as much as 
possible, just now, to find myself within hail of poor Hen- 
derson.” 

“ You ? His friend for forty years past!” 

“ Ay, .’tis for that very reason I I love him like a brother, and 
therefore can’t answer him like a Judas. He toill question me 
about his daughter — about his grandchild ; and I don’t care to 
answer.” 

“You have a bad opinion, then, I fear of poor little Sophy?” 
said Lady Meadowes, anxiously. 

“ I look upon her, my dear ma’am, as already in her cofiBn.” 

“ Poor child 1 Poor mother I’l 

“ I told Mrs. Burton nearly as much before she started. 
’Twas my duty — a painful one — but still, a duty.” 

“And how did she bear it?” 

“ She turned deaf as a stone. She did not choose to hear.” 

“We mothers cling so earnestly to any spar, in such a wreck 
of the affections!” — 

“ I can’t admit you both into the same category under the 
name of ‘ we.’ Had I told you that your child was beyond the 
aid of medicine or the curative influence of climate, and that it 
would be a mercy to let her last moments elapse in peace among 
her own people, you would not have dragged her to a foreign 
country, to be harassed by strange faces and comfortless sur- 
roundings.” 

“ I will not answer for myself, doctor. In the darkness of 
such a moment, the slightest hope shines with a phosphores- 
cent light.” 

“ What could be more natural than that she should profit by 
her change of fortune to use every effort in little Suphy’s 
behalf?” asked Amy, sorrowfully. 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


245 


“ Many things, my dear child, might be more natural. That 
she should stoop, for instance, to be instructed by those wiser 
than herself; that she should consider her father as well as her 
child. I’ve known Rachel Burton nigh upon thirty years. She 
saw the light here, an infant in my arms, just when your pre- 
cious mother came among us as a wife. Don’t fancy that I com- 
pare them. It would be Lombard street to a chayny orange, or a 
golden guinea to a silver groat.” 

“ Come, come, ray dear doctor,” exclaimed Lady Meadowes, 
“ I am not so long past the blushing age, as to sit and listen to 
such flatteries.” 

“ Ho flatteries — truth, ma’am, severest truth,” cried the old 
doctor, shaking a lingering grain of snuff from his finger and 
thumb. “Yours has been through life the portion of the 
Roman matron — we’ll drop the Latin, Miss Amy, and call it the 
hearth-side and the distaff. Hers — ” 

“ Ho scandal about poor Rachel, doctor,” interposed Lady 
Meadowes somewhat anxiously, dreading some allusion to the 
name of Marcus. 

“ Hers — though a single old fellow betwixt two females, let 
me have my say — hers has been the portion of the restless lieart, 
the unquiet mind. From the time when she wore her poor old 
father to a thread by fretting after theatres and ball-rooms and 
London fiddle-faddle, to the days when she worried me into a 
fever by insisting on carrying about my little patieut to whom 
rest and quiet were all in all, to Malvern, Torquay, Buxton, 
Scarborough, anywhere and everywhere but home, I have per- 
ceived there was a worm at the core to induce such perpetual 
motion. Rachel Burton’s nature is not in a healthy state. If I 
could lay my finger on her moral pulse, my life on’t I should 
find it out.” 

“Sacred be the secrets of the prison-house, dear doctor,” said 
Lady Meadowes, placing her own finger on her lip. “ For many 
years, we have witnessed the exemplary life poor Rachel has 
been leading. Let us pray that all may yet end well; and both 
mother and child be restored to us in safety.” 

“ Your kind wishes were never yet wanting, even when unde- 
served,” rejoined Dr. Burnaby. 

“ The only thing that reconciles me to this foolish, feverish, 


246 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


woman’s love of gadding, is that her absence is the cause of 
yoiir presence here. But that the office of the good Samaritan 
awaited 3mu, you might never have returned to Eadensford!” 

“This place possesses attractions for us, my dear doctor, 
which time nor tide can ever wear aAvay,” rejoined Lady Mea- 
dowes, feelingly. 

“'Well, well! I’ll scold you no more just now. But while 
we’re in the vein for abusing our neighbors, let us go the whole 
round of them. The poor admiral, for instance, grows deafer 
and deafer every day. I doubt whether he’d flinch under the 
broadsides of a fleet of steam-frigates; at a naval review ! As to 
Mary, unless I despatch her to tlie chaperonage of Madam Darby, 
Eingettina, to put up with Amy’s leavings, I’m afraid we shall 
never find a Oorydon herabouts for our superannuated Phillis.” 

“Doctor, doctor! — what have we all done to you?” 

“ I say nothing of your Mend, Lady Harriet,” said he, in con- 
clusion, “because, as her pride has had a fall, we must show 
mercy. Whatever may have been their stiflT-neckedness, she and 
her sister have severely paid the penalty.” 

“ Is she likely to return soon to the Manor ?” 

“ I should say not. I don’t think she’ll show ag.ain in this part 
of the counti’y till young Eustace establishes himself at Meadowes 
Court for the shooting season. He has hired both this and the 
neighbouring manor ; and under shelter of her nephcAv’s import- 
ance, perha])s her ladyship may once more venture to look tlie 
sun and moon (and Public Opinion) in the face.” 

“ Have you seen Mr. Eustace since he came into the countiy ?” 
inquired Lad v MeadoAves, timidlj', fanc3ing she might be leading 
to some critical disclosure. 

“ Hot I ! I have seen only Avhat my old housekeeper calls the 
colour of his money. His parents sent me in a cheque, a Jcav’s 
ransom, for what they called curing him of his ‘ fever with ty- 
phoid symptoms.’ But the fee Avas due to youth and a good 
constitution ; not to the old doctor. If my skill could have 
availed” — 

He stopped short. It was not to Lady MeadoAves and Amy 
he could avow that the patient Avhom, during that grieA’ous epi- 
demic, he would have given his right hand to save, Avas lying in 
the chancel of Eadensford Church I 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


247 


To divert the conversation into some more cheerful channel, 
the old doctor began bantering anew his little friend. 

“ And what have yon brought me from London, Miss Amy?” 
said he. “ Since you have not, as I supposed, been occupied with 
conquests and courtships, I trust your pretty eyes and hands have 
been employed in the old doctor’s behalf. AVhere are the slip- 
pers you liave worked for me, pray ; and where is the drawing 
for me to hang t’other side my parlor chimney-piece, to match 
the lame horse, and dog with three legs, you made me frame up- 
on your birthday, ten years ago ? Ringlettina informed me that 
you had been taking lessons of the cousin Capting, and got on, 
under his tuition, like a good ’un.” 

To his great surprise, a pair of slippers, with his initials in cut- 
velvet work, artistically finished, were immediately produced. 

For the drawing, dear Doctor Burnaby, you must choose 
your own subject, and it shall be ready in a great deal less than 
no time,” said Amy, when the little hand that presented the 
slippers had been gratefully and paternally kissed. 

“You are a better girl than I expected,” said the old doctor, 
with tears in his eyes. “ My fees, I see, are quite as readily 
fortheomingfrom you as from Lady Louisa Eustace ! Well, then, I 
choose a scene in the forest of Burdans, with wood-cutters in 
the foreground — time, morning ; to complete which, will necessi- 
tate early rising, and sweep away the trace of London smoke 
(tliough I can’t say I see much of it) from your pretty face. But 
liush I here comes my friend Henderson,” said he, glancing from 
the window towards the entrance gate. “ A letter, too, in his 
hand; and far from a cheerful expression in his face. Heaven 
grant that he may have received no ill news from the Mediter- 
ranean !” 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

The progress of the session brought, among other tardy per- 
ceptions, to the mind of Government, that the name of Lord 
Davenport, high as it stood among the rising orators and patriots 
of the day^, w'ould form a highly advantageous make-weight to 


248 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


its list of adherents. He was accordingly courteously sinnmoned 
to an audience by a noble Nestor^ the blackness of wliose youth- 
ful locks were silvered over into venerability, like an old 
park-paling overgrown with lichen; by whom, after the usual 
solemn exordium, he was favoured with a tender of any reasonable 
office in the gift of the Government. But Lord Davenport was 
by no means dazzled, and only consented to ask for a working 
place of some few hundred pounds a year, for a gentleman and 
a scholar, of whose ability and integrity he offered himself as a 
guarantee, and in whose favour he was deeply interested. This 
was most readily granted, and in the course of the week a letter 
from the Treasury duly confirmed tlie gift. 

The appointment which Her Majesty’s Government had the 
“ satisfaction of placing at Lord Davenport’s disposal, in behalf 
ol\ns jyi'otege^ Mr. Ilargood,” was just such as he could have de- 
sired : a gentleman’s place, where abilities, and, above all, in- 
dustry and zeal, would tell ; securing, after twenty years’ ser- 
vice, a retiring pension. 

Great was his gratitude, and becomingly expressed in the pro- 
per quarter. But now, for the first time, occurred to him a 
doubt whether he was likely to have secured gratitude in his 
turn ; whether he had not been precipitate. In short, the ai.nia- 
ble Hugh, enlightened and civilized, but timid as a girl, almost 
trembled when he sat down to tender to the literary porcupine 
a provision of five hundred per annum. 

It happened that, at the moment he thus offered himself as the 
second providence of Piilteney Street, Ilargood was temporarily 
released from the hauntings of Hamilton Drowe. For the pre- 
ceding week, his erudite kinsman of Bloomsbury had departed 
this life. The bookworm had become food for worms. 

It was on returning from the funeral of his fi)rmer friend, dis- 
gusted a little with himself, and a great deal with the learned 
friends of the deceased, his companions in the mourning coach, 
who, while crawling along in all the pomp of sable plumes and 
black cotton-velvet housings, had beguiled the tediousness of 
their progress by a squahle anent the Sidereal systems of Struve 
and Arago ; and an argument concerning the sacred tooth of 
Gotama, the son of Soudhonhana, King of Kapilavaston, and 
founder of the Buddhist faith, as exhibited under sanction of 


PROGRESS AlfD PREJUDICE. 


249 


the British resident at Kandy, and saluted by British sentinels — 
the one declaring it to be an eye-tooth, the other, a molar — it 
was while labouring under a sense of the littleness of those 
minds which the ignorant are deluded into believing great, that 
the letter of Lord Davenport was placed in his hand. 

. What a transition ! from the gloom of an open grave, where he 
had just seen a handful of dust rattle down upon a coffin, to a 
prospect which was to him as a glimpse of the land overflowing 
with milk and honey ! 

He was alone when he perused the letter. But he was liter- 
ally ashamed to let even AiwzseZ/’ perceive how much he was agi- 
tated by the contents; muttering, as he rang for and hastily 
swallowed a glass of water, that the day was sultry and the 
High gate Road a dust. 

Eveir^fter a second perusal of Lord Davenport’s missive, and 
making himself master of the facts of the case, the easy and plea- 
sant nature of the duties imposed upon him, the liberal salary, 
the certainty of a provision to the end of his days, instead of 
offering grateful thanks to Providence, for his emancipation from 
comparative slavery and a precarious livelihood, he kept search- 
ing into the possible motives that might have induced this young 
aristocrat to take him under his protection. Oh! organs of cau- 
sality and comparison, how often do ye beguile us into looking 
into milestones, and cutting blocks with a razor! 

The most plausible reason he could surmise, nearly resembled 
that he had previously assigned to Lord Davenport’s offer of his 
mother’s carriage to convey him and his daughter to dinner in 
Spring Gardens. lie decided that, aware of his brother’s desire 
to make Mary his wife, he was eager to retrieve the family frmn 
the ignominy of an alliance with a writer for bread : “It would 
sound better for the house of Davenport, if its sou wedded with 
an oflicial man, than with a public journalist.” 

Poor Hargood. It was he, and not the Davenports, who was 
guilty of so narrow-minded a conclusion : — 

He, to whose smooth-rubb’d mind could cling, 

Nor form, nor feeling, groat or small, 

11 * 


250 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


A reasoning, self-suflScient thing, 

An intellectual all-in-all — 

■without human sympatliy or human tenderness. 

The notion being one of his own, he adopted it without much 
scrutiny. In tljat case, he must consider himself indebted to his 
daughter for his advancement in life. For the rest of his days, 
he, the scholar, the strong-minded man, must feel that he had 
been dragged into notice by an insignificant girl. At the mere 
thought, lie compressed his lips till the blood came ! 

While chewing the cud of sweet and bitter fancies, he threw 
himself back in his elbow-chair before the leather-covered table, 
lieaped with volumes fresh from the press ; emitting that sour 
and sickly smell of newly boarded books and freshly printed 
paper, so different from the pungent muskiness of the old bind- 
ings in the Bodleian and National Museum, the very aroma of 
learning — an atmosphere redolent of Buskin and Ainsworth, in- 
stead of Erasmus and Eoger Ascham. For fifteen years not an 
object had been altered within the four walls of that room, stufiy 
and dusty as it seemed, after the purer air of Maytide which he 
had been inhaling in the suburbs. For fifteen years, not an ob- 
ject of comfort or luxury had his straitened income enabled him 
to add to his household gear. And now, because his daughter 
was comely of aspect, he was to become the object of prefer- 
ment, and attain comparative wealth 

He flung the letter into his desk, locked the drawer with a 
jerk as if hiding from his eyes some vexatious object, and re- 
solved to “take time” ere he closed with the specious ofter. 

* Another moment, and his daughter was hastily summoned to 
his presence. Not to be conferred with, or consulted. Of that 
he never dreamed. But she might perhaps throw some light on 
the officious patronage of Lord Davenport. She had perhaps 
been appealing in his behalf to the powerful brother of Marcus? 
Perhaps, complaining of their miserable poverty, of her laborious 
life ? Perhaps, who knows, betraying to this young lord that 
they were dunned by the tailor ; and anxious about the grocer’s 
bill ? He rang the bell with such vehemence, while smarting 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


251 


vm<]er tlie supposition, that even tlie little weazened maid looked 
terrified, though simply ordered, when she answered it, to tell 
Miss Ilargood she was waited for. , 

With her usual ladylike serenity, unsuspicious of a coming 
storm, poor Mary made her appearance, to be roughly interro- 
gated. But her straightforward answers were readily made. 
She had seen Lord Davenport but once in her life, the preceding 
autumn. No communication between them had since taken 
place. 

Pacified on that score, he proceeded to inquire about Marcus. 
But her conscience and her replies were equally clear. Since 
his departure from England, she had not heard a word of Cap- 
tain Davenport. 

As if by way of reparation for his unjust suspicions, her fathfer 
unlocked his desk and placed the ominous letter in her hand. 
And now, if Lord Davenport could have been an unseen spec- 
tator, he would inde.ed have triumphed in the result of his good 
olfices. Such a glow of exultation streamed over her fine fea- 
tures! Such a joyful consciousness seemed to pervade her whole 
frame ! 

Having completed the perusal of the letter, and thoroughly 
mastered the contents, she approached her father and imprinted 
a pious kiss upon Iiis forehead. 

“ Free, at last I” she exclaimed. “ An honorable independence 
for life! A position worthy of my grandfather’s son ! No more 
drudgery ; — no more truckling to low employers ! Thank Hea- 
ven — and him — ^\’ou are free! Dear Ned and Frank, too. They 
will be reared as gentlemen — they will become all my poor dear 
mother desired them to be!” 

“ And you are certain Mary,” said her father, bending upon her 
one of his keenest glances, unmoved by the sensibility which 
streamed like sunshine from her looks — “ that you have never 
apprised either of the brothers Davenport of these ambitious 
pretensions— never, through my poor foolish sister’s weakness, 
allowed them to spy into the miserable nakedness of our land ? 
y ou are quite certain ?” 

“Father, you do me great injustice — you often do me injustice,” 
replied Mary, firmly. “ I would no more betray a secret of 
yours, than you would betray it yourself. Not a complaint ever 


262 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


escaped my lips, either to my anut Ifeadowes or to any other 
person. What Lord Davenport has done, is, I verily believe, a 
tribute to his conviction of }’Our merit. What you will do to 
him — to me — to all of ns — if you mar this stroke of fortune 
only to gratify your personal pride, is scarcely to be tlmught of. 
You cannot, cannot so fling away your prospects, and those of 
your children I I have a right to ask it of you, father. I have 
■worked away my briglitest days. I have never known an idle 
hour — scarcely a minute. But I have submitted cheerfully ; for 
it was for your sake and that of the boys. For my sake and 
theirs, father, listen to me now. Accept this generous offer; 
accept it courteously and thankfully. Lord Davenport deserves 
it. You know he does. For long before he stirred in your 
behalf, or troubled his head about us, yon used to tell me how 
highly you thought of him ; and that he would one day or other 
prove an honor to the country.’^ 

Go to your own room, Mary, for I have a great deal of 
business on ray hands in consequence of the indispensable en- 
gagement which absorbed my time this morning,” said Hargood, 
with repressed displeasure. “ And for the future, spare me these 
eftusions of nervous excitement. Such displays are pardonable 
in Amy Meadowes, who has been reared on ether and sal-volatile. 
But you, Mary, a rational being, with occupations not to be 
trifled with, should exercise more self-control. Go — my dear — 
Eetire to your painting-room.” 


CHAPTER XXXIV 

Hargood’s first proceeding was such as almost to justify the 
sinister anticipations of his noble patron. He wrote to request 
a week’s time for deliberation, ere he accepted the greatness 
thrust upon him. Influenced, however, either by a sense of de- 
cency or his daughter’s eloquence, lie phrased the request with 
the utmost courtesy ; and expressed as humble a thankfulness 
as was compatible with the attitude of a man “ le -plus debout 
possible pour Ure d genouxP 

But his next measure was one that surprised even himself. 


PROGRESS AKD PREJUDICE. 


253 


Having informed Iiis daughter that private business required him 
to absent himself from town for a day or two, — but notliing where- 
fore, — he put himself into an express-train, and hurried down to 
his sister. From her, he fancied he should learn something of 
the vieAvs and connections of the Davenports ; — something that 
might explain why he had been so favoured, and whether the 
patron were in word and deed, a man from whom he might stoop 
to incur obligation. 

He did not think it necessary, on leaving home, to commend 
his daughter and his ducats to the care of Launcelot Gobbo, in 
the shape of the weazened maid. Ducats were next to none with 
him; and his Jessica was one who might be safely intrusted to 
her own good guardianship. 

That he was a stranger to the venerable rector of Radensford, 
and therefore unprivileged to intrude, occurred as little to the 
self-sufficient Hargood, as that ‘‘ drums and Avry-necked fifes*’ 
might be stirring in Soho. He went straight to his mark, — 
bearing his own carpet-bag; and the Avarmth Avith Avhich he was 
welcomed, certainly seemed to justify his expedition. 

Even Avhen the good old pastor returned home from his pro- 
fessional duties and found a stranger Avithin his gates, there Avas 
no embarrassment on any side. Mr. Henderson, indeed, was 
unable to extend his hospitality as clieerfully as he Avould have 
Avished ; for the unfaA'ourable news recently received from his 
absent daughter, sat heavily on the spirits of the Avhole party. 
But the brother of Lady MeadoAves had claims upon his regard, 
that Avere readily and cordially acknowledged. 

From the moment of his arrival, his sister felt convinced that 
she Avas not indebted for his coming to the simple desire of seeing 
lier again after a month’s short absence. And Avhen, Avith the 
aAvkAvardness of a person unused to dissimulation, he began 
cross-questioning her about the Davenports, poor Amy instantly 
jumped at the conclusion that some terrible disaster had befallen 
the absent Marcus. 

But no ! Marcus Avas by no means the hero of his dittay. Mar- 
cus AA'as comparatively out of favour. It Avas Lord Davenport 
and his mother, concerning Avhom Hargood seemed chiefly anx- 
ious. 

Of Tiim^ Lady Meadowes could speak only in terms of the high- 


254 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


est eulogy : — as the best of sons — best of brothers — best of 
nephews — best of cousins. 

But even this was not enough. Ilargood wanted to hear 
something of his character as a friend and acquaintance, — as a 
master and landlord, — as a subject and politician ; and on these 
heads. Lady Meadowes, a timid woman, never allowing herself 
to pronounce on subjects beyond her reach, was puzzled to repl3\ 
She scarcely knew whether the newly inheriting peer were Libe- 
ral or Conservative ; except that, judging from the pretty general 
example of the day, she concluded that, because the late 'Lord 
Davenport had been a bigoted Tory, the present must be a Wliig. 
In her married life, when poor Sir Mark used to prose over his 
port, such names were familiar in her ears as household words : 
for there were Whigs and Tories on the earth in those days. 

These slight revelations, however, afforded small advance to 
Ilargood. But though he had obtained little of the information he 
expected, he had derived advantages from the journey, on wliich 
he had not calculated — the disengagement of thought and opin- 
ion sure to arise from hurried travel and relief from the routine 
of home. Under the salutary influence of that peaceful parson- 
age, those fertile meads of the Severn side, and the jdeasant 
summer atmosphere, his irascible feelings subsided into a calm 
— his brow unbent ; his heart became susceptible of gentler im- 
pulses and nobler interpretations. 

He had intended to remain forty-eight hours absent — whether 
as a guest at the rectory or a sojourner in Oardington ; as so 
hurried a journey and too short a visit, would have afforded 
subject for surmise. But had it been otherwise, neither his 
sister nor Mr. Henderson would have heard of his immediate 
departure. Lady Meadowes, above all, was eager that he should 
visit the place w'here so many years of her tranquil life were 
passed; and on the morrow, accordingly, a beautiful morning 
in May, the air fragrant with blossoms and the whole landscape 
a garden, he consented to accompany Amy on the self-same track 
80 recently described. ^ 

It had gained, however, in the interim. The shaggy thorns 
were now frosted with blossoms — the chesnut-trees were in full 
leaf— the starry celandine glittered profusely amidst the moss, as 
though the white anemone blossoms had exchanged their silver 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


255 


for gold. The orchis in all its quaint varieties of shaping, — lilies 
of the valley shooting up their silver bells among the tawny 
oak-leaves of the preceding year — with hundreds of wild-flowers 
of less general note and favour, carpeted the way with a rich 
interininglement of colours. 

The London Paria proceeded on and on ; absorbed in thought, 
and seemingly regardless of the gentle fawn that glided by his 
side. He was revolving in his mind the beauties of nature; but 
only in their relation to himself and his fortunes. These scenes, 
these flowers, these branching trees, this blue sky flecked with 
silver clouds, the glassy pool sleeping yonder in the bottom : — 
had he inherited no part in them ? Was he from his birth an out- 
cast? Could the merest hewer of vrood or drawer of water 
enjoy his fill of these sylvan glories, while Ae, the intelligent, — 
the enlightened, — the laborious, — was doomed for life to the 
midnight gas, sooty atmosphere, and muddy street-ways of a 
city ? Was his foot never to be on the springy turf, — his eye 
never uplifted to the “ vault of Heaven serene ?” 

While Amy’s simple heart luxuriated in the poetry of the sea- 
son and the scene, — singing with the. birds and blooming with 
the hawthorns, — Hargood was, as usual, wrapped round in 
philosophic discontent ; moralizing and grumbling, when Nature 
called upon him to enjoy. 

At length, having traversed the strip of ragged chase which 
the forest of Burdans interposed between Badensford and Mea- 
dowes Court, and reached the first fence of Sir Jervis’s estate, 
Hai'good, suddenly brought to a stand-still, raised his eyes from 
the ground, and saw before him at a short distance, the fine old 
avenue of beeches, at that moment green as an emerald with the 
first vegetation of the year ; save when, here and there, a slant- 
ing sunbeam, breaking through the branches, mellowed off the 
transparent verdure into gleaming topaz. 

. “ Beautiful — most beautiful !” said he, with genuine admira- 
tion. 

“ Beautiful, indeed, uncle ! Our own dear Meadowes Court !” 
cried Amy ; and she had no further difficulty in hurrying on 
lier hitherto laggard companion. He was full of interest in the 
spot : as the former home of his sister, as the birthplace of Mark 
Davenport’s mother. 


256 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


It was scarcely possible for experience of rural life to be nar- 
rower than that of Edward Hargood. Henstead, the home of 
his youth, was a straggling village situated in the Essex marshes; 
and from the fenny environs of Cambridge, his next abiding- 
place, he removed at once into his London appprenticeship of 
literary drudgery. Poor, and unconnected, few holidays bright- 
ened his laborious year. An occasional snatch of sea-air at 
Brighton or Ramsgate, or far oftener on the monotonous shores 
of South-End or Broadstairs, was attempted more as a restora- 
tion than a pleasure. The nobler features of that land of hypo- 
chondriacism and blue devils which, even in the days of tho 
Puritians, had the audacity to call itself “ Merry England,” were 
unknown to Hargood. The feudal castle, the.Elizabethan palace, 
the Corinthian facade, the baronial hall, the mere, the mountain 
pass, the spreading valley, figuring on his table in portfolios or 
illustrated serials, — had been as little realized to his percep- 
tions as the cities of Mexico or temples of Ellora. Never had 
he beheld them face to face : — never seen the emblazoned ban- 
ner waving from the keep, the ivy mantling the loop-holed 
watch-tower, the prancing of horses issuing from the Gothic 
gateway ; the pomp and circumstance of aristocratic life. Still 
less the 

Mountain crags and mountain torrents, whose 

Wild vapours shape illimitable worlds ! 

Even an antiquated house like Meadowes Court, with its stone 
gables, and mismatched turrets, was as new to him as it would 
have been to an American tourist. And while ushered at Amy’s 
request, by Manesty and his dame, over its rambling suites and 
corridors, with constant reference to “ my lady’s room,” “ my 
lady’s library,” “ my lady’s private staircase,” he remembered 
that, but for a trifling legal oversight, the girl by his side would 
have been now the owner of this fine ofd mansion and the spread- 
ing lands surrounding it, he felt a little less inclined to upbraid 
his sister for overrating the hereditary distinctions of her child. 

The old armorial bearings carved in stone over the vast hall- 
chimney, and corresponding quarter by quarter with a singular 
escutcheon laughingly pointed out to him by Amy as they 
traversed Radensford village, in front of the public-house in which 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


257 


poor old Nichols and his savings were dwindling away, — were 
marked with the date 1018: the epoch when Wings and Tories 
had just started into existence; when Gustavus Adolphus was 
warring and Barnevelt expiring, for the same doctrinal casuis- 
tries over which his own forefathers were puzzling and canting 
in the Conventicle in Bunhill Fields; — when James Stuart and 
Babie Steenie were reigning at Whitehall, and Sir Jacob 
•Meadowes, one of the earliest English Baronets, at Meaduwes 
Court. 

There is something imposing in more than two centuries of 
family stability. The Crown of England itself has twice been 
transferred from dynasty to dynasty during that period. Though 
Ilargood had scorned to bestow more than a passing glance at the 
finely-emblazoned genealogy Avhich, redeemed from the hands of 
old Nichols by the present resident, had been replaced in the 
hall, to denote, in common with its stained-glass windows and 
the carved escutcheon crowning the mantel, that it w^as still, 
though in the occupation of a stranger, an appanage of the 
family of Meadowes, his practised eye did not fail to note that 
it traced the origin of the race to Saxon times: that under the 
Norman sceptre, it had intermarried with royalty; that in the 
W'ars of the Roses, it had sacrificed more than one valiant knight 
to the strifes of king-mongery ; and that under the more civilised 
tyranny of Elizabeth, it had danced at court-revels, and sent 
martyrs to the Tower. It had done all, in short, which yellow 
parchments, corroded brasses, and mossy tombstones tend to im- 
mortalise in a land, which still, in spite of the light shed upon its 
records by Holinshed or Hume, Lingard Alison or even Macau- 
lay, has a world of domestic archives, waiting to be pounded in 
the mortar of history and presented in a concrete form to our 
digestion. 

So strong was the impression produced upon the mind of Ed- 
ward Ilargood, that he wandered with far less interest than Amy 
had expected, through the beautiful shrubberies; so many a 
favourite spot in wdiich tvas consecrated by family anecdotes, 
vainly recounted. The man of cities, the man of books, w^as 
reasoning, not observing. 

Though unable to retrace the chain of thought producing these 
reveries, Amy soon perceived, with woman’s readiness, that they 


258 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


were favourable to heroelf and her family. Wlien he spoke, it 
was more mildly, — almost deferentially. lie seemed to recognise 
claims hitherto unappreciated. Perhaps he was thinking it less 
inexcusable than he once supposed in the parents of the heir of 
those hereditary dignities, to desire that tlieir only son should 
form an alliance enabling liim to substantiate and exalt them. 
For when Sir Mark became the husband of his sister’s governess, 
he Ijad scarcely sufficient income left, to maintain the re'^pecta- • 
bility of his name. 

Before they returned to the Eectory, Amy beguiled her uncle 
into a visit to Eadensford Church. The honourable testimonial 
destined to keep lier father’s memory green in the land would, 
she thought, confirm his favourable impressions. Alas ! for frail 
human nature, whether fermenting under the Spartan tunic, 
Eoman toga, Saxon broadcloth, or even a Patent Siphonia, his 
attention was absorbed by the ancient family monuments ; 
barons and dames in coloured alabaster, holding each other at 
arm’s length by the hand, as if about to start for a mazurka ; 
recumbent crusaders, — knights of the Shire yclept Meddhowes, — 
to say nothing of a privy councillor of that most Christian youth- 
ful king, whose effigies by Holbein so strongly resemble those of 
his bluff and wicked father, with the malice taken out. 

A Wroughton Drewe might have examined this rare collection 
of monuments, with the curious eye of an archaeologist. Ed- 
ward Hargood contemplated them with a half-scornful, half- 
gratified air ; as tokens of the greatness of a house into which 
his sister had married, and of which one of the descendants had 
vainly solicited to become his son-in-law. 

Amy Meadowes turned aside while he was examining the 
inscriptions and dates on these storied tombs ; unspeakably mor- 
tified at the air of unconcern with which he had surveyed the 
only one she cared for, — the simple tablet inscribed to the 
memory of her father. 

Meanwhile, by one of those chances said to occur only in the 
pages of a novel, but more frequently perplexing the progress of 
actual life, where the Unforeseen is by tar the most predominant 
agent, though Hargood had for the last eight years resided in 
London without wider excursioning than a Saturday’s holiday 
now and then to the suburbs, he had not been four-and-twenty 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


259 


hours at a hundred miles’ distance from the metropolis, before 
his absence became a serious evil. 

He had taken precautions as regai'ded his employers. lie had 
provided a substitute for his public duties. To his own family, 
he had not so much as left his address ! 

And on the’ morning following his departure, a letter was 
brought to his house, superscribed “ immediate.” If absent, the 
bearer was to follow Mr. Hargood wherever he was most likely 
to be found. 

Mary’s first suggestion to the weazened maid by whom this 
business-like missive was placed in her hand, was to desire the 
messenger w^ould carry it on to St. Martin’s Lane, where, at her 
father's chambers, his substitute would be found at work. But 
the woman saw it was time to speak out. 

“ I’m afraid, Miss, ’twouldn’t be no use. None but master or 
yourself could be of any service in this emudgenc3% I’m sorrow 
to say one of the young gentlemen’s met with a accident.” 

In most cases, she would have called them the “ boys.” Sad 
indeed must be the accident wdiich caused her to invest them 
with so much dignity ! 

Mary instantly took the alarm. But so severe was the disci- 
pline of the family, that still she dared not open a letter addressed 
to her father. The messenger, by whom it had been brought, 
was summoned to be questioned. 

It w\as not much he could relate. He could not even -tell 
whether the elder or younger child were the sufferer. But “one 
on ’em had had a bad fall, in climbing over the play -ground wall. 
His arm w'as broke ; his state alarming!” Mr. Hargood was re- 
quested to repair immediately to Hammersmith, to “ advise on 
the measures to be taken.” * 

Within a few minutes, Mary was on her way thither in a cab. 
She had summoned all her courage. She had gathered together 
the money, little enough, left by her father for household pur- 
poses. Poor boys! Poor darlings! She did not dare allow 
herself to dwxdl upon ichich might be the one whose life was per- 
haps in danger. But Frank was her mother’s favourite. She 
prayed earnestly for Frank. 

Arrived at the square red brick house, within iron gates and 
palisading, bearing ACADEMY aloft on a portentous board, 


260 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


Mary was far from coui-teously welcomed. Mr. Hopson, the pro- 
prietor, Dr. Hopson as styled in liis prospectus, was a scho<d- 
ma.<ter, a wliole sclioolmaster, and nothing but a schoolmaster ; 
and he consequently regarded a casualty — perhaps a death — in 
the Establishment as a calamity net only to be deplored but to 
be resented. “‘The classes were completely interrupted by this 
unfortunate affair. The drawing-master had been dismissed for 
the day. Order was consequently broken up ; and all because 
Ilargood Minor had chosen to disobey the long-standing regula- 
tions of the Establishment, and climb over the play-ground wall 
into the adjoining gardens, in search of green gooseberries, flow- 
ers, or some such trash.” 

“ In search perhaps of liberty,” thought Mary. But she said 
nothing. She had heard the worst. It was Frank wdio was the 
sufferer. 

She now required to be taken to her brother; and was accord- 
ingly ushered up several flights of stairs to the condemned cell 
or sick room of the Academy — a miserable hole, though the ob- 
ject of much ambition among the boys, as securing indemnifica- 
tion frt)m study. The shutters of the curtainless window were 
closed, to exclude the afternoon sunshine. But there was still 
light enough in the cheerless room to enable her to discover the 
little form extended on a mattress upon the iron bedstead, with 
the shattered limb resting on a folded sheet. 

Mary was soon on her knees by the bedside. 

“ Is papa very angry, sister Mary?” murmured the feverish boy. 

“Ho one is angry, darling. Do you suffer much, Frank?” 

A deep moan was the reply ; a tnoau replete with anguish. 

She had already been informed that the Hammersmith sur- 
geon, who had quitted his patient only a quarter of an 
liour previous to her arrival, had stated that it would be 
impossible for the fracture to be reduced till the swelling of 
the mangled limb had in some degree subsided. Cold com- 
presses were to be applied; and in a few hours he was to re- 
turn. All she could now do, therefore, for the sufferer, was to 
instal herself as his nurse; undertaking to moisten his lips when 
thirsty — a considerable relief to Mrs. Hopson, a voluminous 
middle-aged lady, adorned with a chesnut front, and a black lace 
coiffure overgrown with faded sweet peas, Avho thankfully 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


261 


resigned lier occupation. But even Mrs. Hopson, though in ac- 
cepting the cares of office, she had enlarged in Frank Ilargood’s 
hearing on the fitting chastisement inflicted by the justice of 
Providence on refractory young gentlemen unable to resist the 
temptatif^ns of original sin and green gooseberries in the teeth 
of academic rules and regulations, after listening for an hour or 
two to tlie suppressed cries of the brave little patient, had 
refrained from further objurgation. 

How much more, then, “ Sister Mary who stood listening to 
his oppressed breathing, and -wiping the cold perspiration from 
his forehead, till her very heart sickened. Few pangs more 
grievous in this world, than to watch beside a sufiering child, 
whose torments are beyond one’s power of assuagement. Poor 
Mary rolled herself up in the nursery chair, with every pulse in 
her frame beating, wondering and wondering how this poor little 
injured frame would ever sustain the torture consequent on set- 
ting the doubly-fractured arm ; wondering even Avhether he 
would outlive so severe a shock on the constitution ; -wondering, 
above all, where her father could be found, and whether he were 
likely to return home in time to authorise a consultation. Every 
time she bent over the boy, administering to his thirst, or apply- 
ing the cooling applications ordered, she counted the quarters 
and the minutes, till the return of the Hammersmith surgeon. 

Already, by anticipation, she recoiled from the idea of this 
man. For it had been whispered to her in his honour, by the 
lady in the chestnut front, that he was “ a tiptop man of the new 
school, having walked the hospitals in Paris, and been a pupil at 
the Hotel Dieu and Mary, who had heard it said that this 
dashing guild of chirurgery -w-as far prouder of its address in re- 
moving a limb than of skill in preserving one, trembled at the 
prospect of a disciple of the iron-handed Dupuytren. 

Nor were her alarms groundless. When evening and the ex- 
perimental Saw-bones arrived together, he decided, at once, on 
what appeared to Mary a very cursory examination of the pa- 
tient, that amputation must take place. “ The nervous system 
was becoming alarmingly excited — no time was to be lost.” 

But when Mary discovered that he had arrived, accompanied 
by his assistant, and bringing his bag of instruments, she saw im- 


262 


PROGRESS AND PREJtTDICE. 


mediately that he had prejudged the case, and firmly opposed 
his decision. 

“ It was natural,” he said, with a nauseous simper, “ for ladies 
to be tender-hearted. She must not think about the business. 
She must leave the room — had better leave the hous^ indeed, 
till all was over. But she need not be under the least alarm. 
Chloroform would be employed. The boy would feel nothing* 
and his life be happily preserved.” 

But Mary turned a deaf ear. That right arm, so lightly valued 
by the operator, was to atford the future means of subsistence to 
her helpless brother. It might, perhaps, yet be saved. Acting 
on her own judgment, she forbade, in her father’s name, any ope- 
ration to be attempted till her return from town with further 
advice. She would be off immediately, and be back within a 
couple of hours. 

The professional man rebelled. The Hopsons looked cross, 
and seemed perplexed. But as Mary now ventured to pronounce 
the names of Brodie and Guthrie, they dared not risk any overt 
act of defiance. 

She was soon jogging back again to town in a sluggish hack- 
cab. But civility and a liberal bribe induced the man to accele- 
rate liis pace; and again she Avas coiled up musingly, as in the 
old arm arm-chair at Hammersmith, cold and faint, though the 
Aveather Avas balmy. She had not tasted food all day, and a ball 
of ice seemed lodged in her heart of hearts. Consciousness 
seemed almost to haA’^e forsaken her Avhen she arrived at the Da- 
venports’ door in Spring Gardens, Avliither she had desired to be 
driven. If any one in London knew her father’s address, it Avas 
likely to be his benefactor. 

My lord Avas dining out — my lady and Miss Davenport, 
having dined early, Avere out for a Avalk in St. James’s Park,” 
was all the answer she could obtain. 

In the heaviness of her misery, Mary, in an humble tone, asked 
leave to wait ; — and the old hall-porter, believing her at first to 
be a tradesperson appointed by my lady, readily consented. 
Scarcely, however, had she seated herself on one of the hall- 
chairs, wlien the same “ old experience ” that endows with “ pro- 
phetic vein ” statesmen and editors, and with a detective police- 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


263 


man’s eye a vigilant old porter, induced him to throw open the 
door of the only uninhabited chamber in the house, that of 
Marcus. And there, in that little Zoar, poor Mary and her tears 
took refuge. 

Uad she possessed one faculty disengaged from terror of tlie 
edge of the surgeon’s knife and grating of his saw, she would 
have noticed the beautiful landscape so prized of old ; — and re- 
cognized that she was in the private room of “Marcus, Marcus.” 
But her eyes were blinded with sorrow ; and in the porches of her 
ears sounded only that perpetual, meaningless murmur, which 
an eminent writer has likened to the sound of sand pouring 
eternally through the great hour-glass of Time. 

Twilight had come, — dusk, — almost darkness, before the door 
opened and Lady Davenport and her daughter approached her: 
— at first, with curiosity, — soon with the deepest interest. 

Concisely, and self-contained, she told her name and errand. 

“ I thought,” she said “that, failing all other sources of infor- 
mation, my father’s address might perhaps be known to Lord 
Davenport, — by whom he has been lately mucli befriended. I 
was almost in hopes that, through my aunt Meadowes, it might 
be known to your ladyship.” 

Lady Davenport professed her utter ignorance. 

“To-morrow’s post,” she said, “might perhaps bring infor- 
mation from Kadensford.” 

“To-morrow! ” cried Mary clasping her hands — “when even 
to-night, it is almost too late! ” 

“ If to_ know it be of such moment, my dear Miss Hargood,” 
said Lady Davenport, a little startled, “ I will instantly dispatch 
a servant to my son. He is dining at no great distance, in Rich- 
mond Terrace.” 

“Yes, yes — for mercy’s sake!” exclaimed Mary ; and between 
broken sobs, she now explained with deep feeling to her sympa- 
thizing companions, the origin of her anxiety. “My brother 
will suffer agony all night — perhaps have to undergo amputation 
— perhaps death — my poor little brother !” said she; “unless I 
can obtain my father’s sanction to calling in better advice.” 

“ But why wait ? Why not instantly take down Brodie to the 
school where 3mu say this poor unfortunate child is lying?” said 
Lady Davenport, with earnest sympathy. 


264 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


Mary answered only by her tears. But they reminded her 
hearers that whatever the kindness and energy of her heart, she 
was not a free agent. She had sunk down again, powerless, into 
a chair, to wait for Lord Davenport’s ans’wer; and her paleness 
and faintness were so manifest, that Lady Davenport pressed 
upon lier with motherly thoughtfulness, offers of refreshment. 
Tliotigli Mary silently shook her liead, tea was brought — (again 
tea, in presence of the old Himalayan landscape !) And to satisfy 
them, she took a cup into her hand. But it was soon set down 
untasted. The choking in her throat rendered it impossible 
to swallow. 

Tlie moment the sound of an arrival in the hall reached her 
ears, she started up refreshed. Lord Davenport’s messenger. 
No ! Lord Davenport’s self! She rushed towards him, as if to 
welcome a friend. A hurried pencil-line from his mother, des- 
patched by the servant, had imperfectly acquainted him withlier 
errand. 

“You judged very rightly in supposing tliat I might assist 
you, dear Miss Hargood,” said he, while cordially pressing her 
hand; all joy, all amazement at finding her under his own roof. 
“Mr. Hargood informed me before he left London that he %vas 
about to visit Kadensford, for a family consultation with his 
sister.” 

“Then his advice or consent will come too late!” exclaimed 
Mary, relapsing into despair. 

“You must not wait for it,” interposed Lady Davenport. 
“ You must act on your own judgment, and I am sure you can 
never act amiss,” she kindly added. Then, in as few words as 
possible, she explained to her son the previous origin of Mary’s 
affliction. 

“Not a moment must be lost!” cried he, almost before he 
came to a conclusion. “You, mother, will, I am sure accompany 
Miss Hargood back to nammersmith.” 

“ I have already ordered the carriage for that purpose,” was 
Lady Davenport’s prompt reply. 

“ And I will hasten to Brodie or Guthrie, and send on the 
first man of eminence whose services I can procure. Let nothing 
be done till he arrives. I will then telegraph for Hargood. Or 
stay!” said he, reflecting that, if the first surgical advice were 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


265 


-secured, the temporary absence of that stern-minded individual 
might he a benefit. “ He would, perhaps, he disabled by the shock 
of a too sudden communication. We have still time for the express 
train ; I will hurry down to Eadensford and fetch him at once.” 

No further need to recommend the object of his preference to 
the protection of his mother. He saw, at once, tliat the good 
sense and good feeling of Mary had made instant way with one 
whose natural sense and feeling were equally genuine. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

Thankful was the poor, worn, and broken-spirited girl to 
Lady Davenport, for leaving her to her silent reflections^ tho 
whole way from London to Hammersmith. Her return had 
been anxiously expected; but when news transpired in the 
Establishment that little Hargood’s sister had come back in a 
“ coronet carriage,” accompanied by a live ladyship, Mrs. Hopson, 
in a state of nervous consternation, exchanged her sweet j)eas for 
a blonde cap of the first magnitude, prepared to be as fussy as 
she had been hitherto neglectful. 

Lady Davenport took little heed of her importunities. She 
was absorbed in watching the silent joy of the poor suffering 
little fellow when sister Mary again kneeled down beside him ; 
and by her well-understood and almost maternal croonings and 
questionings, afforded comfort to him while she satisfied herself 
that no unsatisfactory change had taken place. 

Before she had risen from her knees, one of the most eminent 
of London surgeons, apprised by Lord Davenport, of the urgency 
of the case, made his appearance ; and the local Esculapius hav- 
ing been already summoned, speedily arrived, minus a cubit of 
his stature. ’ 

From the consultation, Mary and her friend were of course 
excluded ; but even in the adjoining chamber to which, having 
declined the honor of the state-parlor below, they were hastily 
conducted, the shrieks of the poor boy when the mangled limb 
from which the bone was protruding, was handled and examined, 
were terrible to hear, even to the less interested of the two. 

12 


266 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


The consultation lasted long — tcry long — to Mary’s feelings 
interminably. She could scarcely control her anguish. A 
mother’s feelings were stirring in that young heart ! 

Now, had Mary Hargood been required to propitiate the 
mother of Hugh and Marcus in the common course of events, 
she would probably have spared no effort to make the best of 
herself and her belongings, in order to produce a favorable im- 
pression. But here, in the attic of a third-rate boarding school, 
with bare boards, a long-snuffed tallow candle, and a few miser- 
able tenantless stump-bedsteads by way of furniture, di-regard- 
ful of everything around her, even of Lady Davenport herself, 
she was grappling that kind woman to her heart witli hooks of 
steel. She went up to her once or twice, intermitting herself as 
she hurriedly paced the room ; not to apologize for the inconve- 
nience to which she was putting so great a lady ; but to seize 
her hand for sympathy and support, as a woman, a mother, a 
fellow Christian — when the poor child’s cries grew fainter and 
fainter. At length, poor Mary’s heart grew fainter than all ; and 
for the first time in her life, she sank upon one of those wretched 
beds, in an all but deathlike swoon. 

Lady Davenport assisted her unaided ; for she knew that the 
help she would fain have called for, was wanted in the adjoining 
room. But while bathing her temples with water luckily at 
hand, and loosening her collar and waistband, she could not 
resist imprinting a tearful kiss upon her forehead — a kiss that 
accepted lier at once and for ever as her adopted daughter. 

When Mary recovered her consciousness, her head was resting 
on the bosom of Lady Davenport ; and before her were the two 
surgeons, cheerful and at ease. What pleasant intelligence they 
had to communicate ! The limb was set — ^the patient doing well. 
No fear or chance of an amputation. The stilling of the boy’s 
cries had arisen from the influence of chloroform. 

And now came anxious suggestions that Mary should return 
home at once with Lady Davenport. “ 111 and overcome as she 
■was, her presence could be of no possible service.” 

“ Not to Am, perhaps, but to me. I could not leave him. I 
should suffer more at a distance. And though you say his sleep 
is assured by opiates, should he wake and not find my hand 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 26'7 

ready to meet his own, he avould feel too lonely. No I you 
must really allow me to stay.” 

Her arguments prevailed; though of course it would have 
been pleasanter to the Hopsons to consign the sick room for the 
night to darkness and neglect. 

“ Since you will not come with me, good-night, then, my dear 
child,” said Lady Davenport, bestowing upon her a parting em- 
brace. “ Compose yourself as far as is possible under such sad 
circumstances. To-morrow morning, doubtless, your father will 
be brought back by my son.” 

Lord Davenport would have been edified could he have 
learned on his way down to Radensford, by spirit-rapping, elec- 
tric acupuncture, or any other of those miraculous modern pro- 
cesses which render “ Every Man,” even the most cloddish and 
material, “ his own Prospero,” the table-talk which followed 
liis hasty exit from the dinner-table at Richmond terrace, before 
the claret had completed its first round. 

It was not opera-night ; so that there was no plea for one of 
those apologetic nods with which the fashionable melomaniac 
signals the master of the house along his dinner-table, on Tues- 
days or Saturdays, before his cab-horse is heard starting oflc“ at 
the rate of twelve miles an hour, to be in, time for the aria d) 
entrata of the prima donna of the night. 

“ Let us hope,” said one of the Cruxleyan set, as soon as the 
door had closed after hiirii, “ that Davenport has not taken up the 
dodge of sending for himself away from dinner-parties, like Sir 
Quinine Flam, or Swainson of the Blues, who pays a guinea a 
dozen to Barry for scented envelopes directed to himself in the 
tenderest of handwritings.” 

“ You don’t know Davenport. Billet-doux are quite out of 
his line!” mumbled old Cruvey. “I’ll answer for it he has been 
sent for to Coldbath Fields, to some felon wanting to turn 
Queen’s evidence by a ‘full and ample confession.’' Davenport 
has invented a moral emetic for the use of the Model Prisons, 
which compels a man to clear his conscience, will-he, nill-he.” 

“More likely,” observed old Wormwood, the literary Thug, 
“his presence has been required at the private view of some 
political autopsy, in the proof-sheets of a certain leading journal. 
I hear there is some wholesale butchery in hand.” 


26S 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


“You talk after the desires of your own heart, my dear 
Wormwood !” rejoined the Cruxleyan. “ Davenport may be a 
crotchety fellow and a party man ; but he would not kill a midge 
as you are ahvays endeavoring to slay eagles — ^by the wind of a 
spent pen ! 1 found Jack Beresford reading one of your reviews 

this morning at the Carlton ; and though he took all the fences, 
(as he calls skipping the uncut pages) he was as much affected 
by the malm animus exuding from your article, as a dog by the 
carbonic-acid-gas in the Grotta del Cane. I was obliged to call 
for a glass of Cura^oa for him ; or your malice might have made 
another victim besides poor *****p5 

“ Like Tom Thumb, my dear lord,” rejoined Wormwood, with 
cynical self-possession, “ when I unmask literary impostors, 

I do my duty — and I do no more. 

Let angry authors be as resentful as they please — 

Nitor in adversum ; nec me, qui cetera vincit 

Impetus; et rapido contrarius Euchororbi.” 

“ Away wdth him, away with him, he speaks Latin !” cried tho 
Cruxleyan, in the heroic vein of Jack Cade. 

“Why not? I seldom hear you speak English!” retorted 
Wormwood; who prided himself on being one of those narrow- 
minded purists who would fain surround the language that 
embodies our hourly amplifying knowledge and experience, with 
an iron barrier like that of the fortifications by which Louis 
Philippe attempted to compulse the good City of Paris, which 
ended by expulsing himself. 

“Truly,” retorted the angry Cruxleyan, “it is tolerably good 
Saxon which describes a certain man as 

Best of all he males, 

To butcher, and mangle, and scarify females ; 

If he can’t find a woman, his talent will show it 
' The best in abusing some very great poet : 

or a good fellow whose back is turned, like Davenport.” 

“ I wonder,” insinuated old Cruvey, who had reasons of his 
own for disliking the personal turn the conversation was taking, 
inasmuch as, having officiated half his life as sovffre-douleur to 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


269 


"Wormwood, he knew he should become the scapegoat of his 
vengeance later in the evening at the Carlton, — “I wonder 
whether Davenport will ever marry?” 

“ I’m sure I hope so,” answered the Cruxleyan. “ Daven- 
port’s the sort of fellow of whom slips ought to be taken. A 
man willing to do everybody’s business besides his own ; to belong 
to all sorts and conditions of committees; — poke his nose into 
every description of abuse; promote every species of inquiry; 
sift public charities to the bottom of their strong box, and sub- 
scribe to private ones. Davenport is a phenomenon compounded 
of Philanthropist Howard, Henry Brougham, and Joseph Hume, 
sweetened with a small spoonful of Mrs. Fry.” 

“I’m told,” rejoined Cruvey, as he filled his glass, “that 
young Eustace, who has so strangely cast his slough, after 
making the discovery that he has a country as well as a soul to 
save, is about to marry Davenport’s sister.” 

“Is he? So much the better. These political puritans ought 
to intermarry, like the Jew's, to maintain the immaculacy of the 
race; or w'e shall be having them disappear, like golden pippins 
or Albemarle spaniels. Billy Eustace is more than half a good 
fellow, tliough, in his way. Billy w'as one of till he got bit 
by Davenport, and Barfont Abbey hasn't been the same place 
since he made his recantation. How'ever, I suppose we shall 
have him back again, when love and politics drop him down 
upon terra Jirma; like the old tortoise in the fable carried up 
into the sky by a brace of eagles.” 

AVhile they ihus praised and scandalized him, Lord Davenport 
w\as pursuing his way into Gloucestershire, “straight as an arrow’ 
from a Tartar.’s bow’,” and nearly as rapidly. Having arrived at 
Cardington at an hour when nothing is w’elcome or provided for 
but mail-bags, he took a couple of hours’ rest and refre'^hment 
before he proceeded to Radensford ; satisfied that the longer 
Edw’ard Hargood’s interference between his mother and Mary 
and the sick child, was deferred, the better for all parties. 

And this opinion w’as considerably strengthened after his 
interview with the individual in question. Ilargood received 
the intelligence of his child’s misfortune w’ith frowns rather than 
tears : enlarging upon the accident as a most ofibnsive proof of 


270 


PROGRESS AND PREJCDTCE, 


the want of care and discipline in Dr. Hopson’s estahlisliment, 
witliont once adv^erting to the sufferings of the boy. 

“Frank might be maimed for life: a cripple thrown on the 
hands of his family: a burthen to himself and others.*’ The 
practical-minded fother talked himself in short into a fit of indig- 
nation, whicli sounded very much as if he were about to bring 
an action for damages against Providence. 

In such a mood of mind,. it was clear that his company back 
to town would have been fiir from recreative ; and Lord Daven- 
]>ort was thankful when, after an insinuation of surprise that his 
lordship should have taken the trouble of coming when a 
letter would have served the purpose quite as w^ell, Ilargood 
proposed that he should at least remain and pass the day with 
his nunt and cousin, to console them for Ais abrupt departure ; 
— a, hint of wishing to make the journey alone, which his young 
patron readily accepted. 

When, therefore, Amy and her mother made their appearance 
for the day, they found Mr. Hargood departed,., and a new guest 
installed at the Rectory breakfast-table: ,a guest they dearly 
loved, and v^ho was far more congenial with the taste of its 
venerable master than the dogmatic Ilargood. The name of 
Hugh Davenport was familiar to him, moreover, as brother to^ 
the friend of his late son-in-law ; by whom, on her departure 
from India, the interests and comfort of his widowed Rachael 
had been chiefly provided for. More concerning Marcus, she 
had of course never confided to her father. 

That poor little Frank’s sufferings met with far deeper sympa- 
thy from Lady ^leadowes and Amy than from his own father, 
did not surprise Lord Davenport. Both were full of compassion ; 
not for the boy alone, but for his kind-hearted sister. It touched 
him to the soul to hear them describe her more than maternal 
sacrifices to those boys: — her provident care,— her sisterly love. 
The hope that he was perhaps about to put an end to her 
domestic troubles, and se'cure peace and prosperity to her and 
them, almost produced a betrayal of his feelings. 

The road from Radensford to Meadowes Court seemed now 
the allotted daily walk of Amy ; for Lord Davenport naturally 
declined a proposed 'drive in the Rector’s pony-chair to see the 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


271 


lions of the neighborhood, in favor of a saunter with his cousin, 
lie wanted to talk to her of Mary, unlistened to by the elders 
of the family. Amy was more likely to prove simpatica with 
his bursts of enthusiasm, — more likely to render him familiar 
with her cousin’s tastes and predilections, to which it might 
shortly be his happy lot to administer. 

Full of Mary — full of his own prospects — a lover, in short, in 
every sense of the word, he was naturally less alive than even 
her uncle had been to the beauties of the forest of Burdans. As 
to the avenue, instead of bursting into the transports for which 
her partial heart was prepared. Lord Davenport prosaically 
stated his general objections to the beech. Oak or elm, he 
thought, from their longevity, were the only trees for avenues. 

“ But they never form, by the interlacing of their upshooting ' 
boughs^ a Gothic aisle like this ?” cried Amy, when they reached 
the beautiful shady path, sheltered as by the groined arches of a- 
cathedral. 

Again, however, Hugh the utilitarian, objected to a close 
avenue: — “always damp in summer, and in winter impassable.” 
lie still obstinately adhered to oak and elm, planted at suffi- 
cient distances to admit the free passage of light and air to the 
road they border. 

Am}’’ was getting almost angry. A fault found with Meadowes 
Court, seemed in her ears a sacrilege. Still greater was her vexa- 
tion when slie began to perceive that this cousin Hugh, whom 
she had liitherto found so brotherly and affectionate, Avas far 
more interested in the spot they were visiting as the present and 
future residence of his friend Eustace, than as the home of his 
mother’s childhood, or as her own birth-place! He kept enlarg- 
ing on the improvements he should make, “ Avere Eustace,” 
and “ the changes he should strenuously suggest to Eustace, on 
his return to toAvn as if he had totally forgotten that this beau- 
tiful estate, so dear to lier, Avas long supposed to be her own. 

“After all, it is but natural,” mused poor Amy, as Lord Da- 
venport stalked across the grass, to examine the facilities afforded 
for draining the loAver portion of the paddock, Avhich the sup- 
pression of the moat, as a reservoir, had rendered unusually 
swampy. “ Me looks upon the poor old place as his sister’s future 


272 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE, 


residence. He already beholds Olivia installed in these delicious 
gardens!” 

After his survey of the mansion itself, Lord Davenport spoke 
out more freely : alluding openly to “ the time when Eustace 
would bring down a wife, and make the house more comforta- 
ble.” 

“ I should not be surprised,” said he, “ if, on his father’s death, 
he left Horndean Court entirely to the occupation of Lady 
Louisa and his sisters. That unfortunate business of the eldest 
daughter has given his mother such a shock tliat she will never 
return to London ; and she is fond of Horndean, — which Eustace 
detests. Situated in the midst of a stately, formal neighbour- 
hood, thirty miles from a railroad, and a hundred miles behind 
the progress of civilization, he fancies he should be much happier 
here, within a pleasant distance of town, and immediate reach of 
fox-hounds.” 

Amy was silent. Those not the grounds on which she 
wanted Meadowes Court to be preferred. The place possessed 
inherent merits, which she thought deserved some share in his 
approbation. She ventured, at last, to remark that she had for- 
merly heard Mr. Eustace declare himself to be thoroughly sick of 
London. 

“As a man of pleasure, I grant you, he had become, as they 
all do in their turn, completely hlasL How should it be other- 
wise? London is of all cities the one least adapted to a mere 
sensualist : — all its luxuries imported, — from claret and p4te de 
vStrasburg, to French plays and Italian operas. But Eustace, 
thank Heaven, has outlived that miserable phase of his exis- 
tence. Eustace has acquired a purpose in life : no longer the 
lazy, lounging, lanky fellow, who found life ‘ a bore,’ and its say- 
ings and doings ^bosh.' You would 'scarcely know him, Amy. 
There is not a man on earth I value more highly.” 

His cousin would have given worlds for courage to allude ex- 
plicitly to his projected marriage with Olivia, as the probable 
cause of this transformation. But allusion to the subject was 
impossible. It was pleasanter to let her cousin proceed with his 
enthusiastic recountalof the golden opinions which his friend had 
recently Avon, both in public and private life. “And Avhat I par- 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


273 


ticularly admire in him,” added Lord Davenport, “ is the tact 
with which he has incorporated himself into rational society, 
without breaking with the set which, however frivolous and 
vexatious they may now appear in his eyes, were once his bo- 
som friends and hospitable entertainers. I sometimes wonder, 
Amy,” said he, v/ith the utmost carelessness, snatching from a 
thicket, as he passed, the first dog-rose of the year, ancf offering 
it to his cousin, — sometimes wonder how you escaped falling 
in love with Eustace. For I know that, at one time, he admired 
you exceedingly. However, marriages, they say, are made in 
Heave n4” 

And before Amy could find breath to reply to this direct at- 
tack, he had plunged in.medias res of a full avowal of his own 
passion for Mary Hargood, and his intention to offer her his 
hand. 

Startled beyond measure, Amy had no longer the smallest in- 
clination to recur to William Eustace. She both loved and va- 
lued her cousin Mary ; and her expressions of joy were as warm 
as tlie occasion required. She 'seized Lord Davenport by the 
hand, and thanked him as cordially for having appreciated the 
merit of her friend, as though it had been a kindness done to 
herself. Still, the w'oman, — the girl^ — predominated. She kept 
ever and anon stopping short to accuse lierself of blindness and 
stupidity, in not having at once discovered his preposses- 
sion, from the endless inquries he had addressed to her through- 
out the winter, touching Mary’s occupations and sentiments : — 
then flying off to a thousand anecdotes of Mary’s excellence and 
self-abnegation. It was a subject which neither of them was 
likely to gro’w weary of discussing. 

“But liow is all this to be settled with Marcus?” exclaimed 
Amy, suddenly pausing in their pleasant plan-makings. “Surely 
you are aware of his attachment to Mary ? 

“ Shall I surprise you much by telling you that, only four days 
ago, I received a letter from him, written in utter ignorance of 
my project, and suggesting her to me as a wife?” 

“ Marcus ? Only six months ago, so passionately in love 
with her!” 

“ Only six months ago deliberately rejected by her. You do 

12 * 


274 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


not know my brother as I do ; or you would be aware of the in- 
fluence of siicli a fact on the sensitiveness of liis sell-love. The 
world scarcely liolds the woman he would not prefer to a girl 
Avho liad calmly declined his hand and resisted his attractions. 
But it seems that, in describing the individual she considered 
suited to her as a partner for life, -Miss Hargood sketched an 
ideal which Marcus declares to be my life-like portrait: and 
such is his estimate of her excellence, that, since he cannot ob- 
tain her as a wife, he insists upon having her for a sister-in- 
law.” 

Amy could not forbear a passing tribute to the singular good- 
fortune which seemed to throw every advantage into the hands 
of her cousin. 

“Tliere is a person of your acquaintance,” resumed Lord 
Davenport, following his own line of reflection, “ whom it 
would never surprise me to see resume over Marcus an ascen- 
dancy which long preceded his passion for Mary Hargood.” 

‘‘ Mr. Henderson’s daughter ?” • 

‘‘ AVhy not say Sylvester Burton’s wife and widow — for it was 
in 'that position she won his boyish aflfections! I remember 
xvhen his letters from India were tilled with ravings about this 
gentle, patient, tender, Rachel Burton ; and, but that personal 
extravagance had so injured his income as to render marriage just 
then impossible, he would certainly have oflered her his hand.” 

“ The attachment could scarcely be very strong, which 
did not prevent his falling in love, at first sight, with Marv I” 

“ Like all over-impressionable people, Marcus is fickle ; and 
long absence and the imprudence of the whole affair had proba- 
bly effected their usual consequences; But I suspect that, at 
the bottom of his heart, there has always abided a "leaning to- 
wards the ^premier amour ^ to which, the song says ^on retient 
toujours based perhaps on his conviction that the attachment 
was mutual.” 

Amy, to whom her mother had confided only a moderate 
portion of Rachel Burton’s confessions, was a little surprised. 
But Marcus and his caprices had long lost their parann)unt 
interest in her mind. The spell was broken. This further proof 
of the instability of his character only served to renew her self- 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


2Y5 


gratulations that slie had not broken, but gradually unlinked her 
chain. 

Ere they regained .the house, Lord Davenport exacted a 
promise from her that, at present, ail these plans and surmises 
should be reserved from her mother. 

“Let everything be satisfactorily arranged,” said he, “ before 
she hears a word about the matter. My dear aunt is so kind- 
hearted, that should any disappointment arise to frustrate my 
hopes, it would distress her atfectionate nature. She has had 
plagi^es enough in life. We must all henceforward do our best, 
Amy, to keep her well, and make her happy.” 


CHxVPTER XXXVI. 

At an earlier hour, the morning following poor Frank’s 
disaster, than the interview took place between his father and 
Lord Davenport, Olivia, escorted by Madame Winkelried, and 
bi'inging a plentiful supply of forced fruit and other pleasant 
gifts for the little sufferer, made lier appearance at Hammer- 
smith : the Hopsons, male and female, who had refused ingress 
into the sick-room, the preceding day, even to little Ned, being 
now prepared to admit the whole House of Lords, had it thought 
proper to present itself. 

Grateful indeed for these gifts was the solitary watcher ; for 
the sick child, though proceeding favourably, complained of in- 
tolerable thirst. But still more grateful was she for the affec- 
tionate greetings of Olivia, and the motherly counsels of the 
good-hearted German, who, in a sick room, seemed in her 
element. Before they quitted it, the surgeons arrived ; and a 
highly satisfactory report was the result of their consultation. 

And now, again left alone, poor Mary began to look forward 
with terror to her father’s arrival, so anxiously desired the pre- 
ceding day. She felt certain of having incurred his displeasure. 
She had either involved him in heavy expenses, or in alarming 
obligations towards the Davenports; and if he recoiled from 
merely accepting a place under Government on the recommen- 
dation of the young lord, how was he likely tx) submit, even for 


276 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


a time,*to be indebted to him in the frightful amount of a sur- 
geon’s fee ! 

She turned sick at the thonglits of liis displeasure ; and but 
that, wliile she dwelt upon it, lier ear was released from the 
piteous moans of that suffering boy, by which yesterday she had 
been distracted, her courage would have failed her. 

But that sufficed. Let her father rage as he might, the child 
was relieved — tlie child, thank Heaven, was safe. 

After many weary hours, the creaking of boots on the crazy 
old attic staircase renewed the beating of her heart. And well 
it might ; for scarcely were the first greetings exchanged be- 
tween her and her father, when he began to lecture poor little 
Frank on his disobedience, and herself for having so super- 
fluously intruded their family affairs upon the Davenports. 

He brought intelligence, however, which almost reconciled her 
to his rebukes. The result of his journey was decisive. He 
had made up his mind to accept the offered place: and was 
about to return home for the purpose of despatching to Spring 
Gardens an answer to that effect. It was clear, alas ! to Mary, 
from his present mood of mind, that he was likely to intimate 
to Lord Davenport that, having made cautious inquiries into liis 
lordship’s character, he found him possessed of such qualities as 
entitled him to become his patron ; in other words, that, having 
ascertained him to be right-minded, humane, learned, charitable 
and pious, he, Edward Hargood, consented to accept obligations 
at his hands. 

Ho matter ! A being so generous as Lord Davenport, would 
overlook the eccentricities of a really good and able man. The es- 
sential was that the yoke was removed from her father’s neck and 
the goad from the sides of her young brothers ; and the remain- 
der of tliat day was one of comparative peace and rest to Mary. 

The night that followed it, however, Avas less satisfactory. 
According to the usual reaction, feverish symptoms rendered the 
little patient restless, and necessitated constant watchfulness. 
On the morrow, therefore, when Mr. Hargood made his appear- 
ance, he was exceedingly displeased ; both at the languor of the 
exhausted child, which he gttributed to the peaches and grapes 
forwarded by Lady Davenport ; and at the pale cheeks and anx- 
ious eyes of his daughter. 


PROGRESS AXD PREJUDICE. 


2'77 


“ If things went on so badly,” he s^id, he should be obliged, 
in spite of the arduous business he was just then compelled to 
wind up, and the new duties into which he was about to be 
initiated, to come and establish himself at Hammersmith, till 
his son’s cure was completed.” 

At this hint, Mary did indeed bestir herself to look well and 
cheerful ; for she felt that her father’s enthronement in the sick 
room would convey a sentence of death to one or both his chil- 
dren. The remainder of the Ilford Castle fruit was instantly 
dispatched down to little Hed, to be shared with his rough- 
headed school-fellows. 

But to her father’s visit succeeded one wl^ich was indeed con- 
soling. Scarcely had the sick chamber been set in order, and 
refreshed for the ‘day, when Lady Davenport was seated by the 
bedside in the great nursing-chair; looking, with her widow’s 
weeds and serene countenance, the picture of a Sister of Mercy. 
Having whispered otf the sick child into a doze, she began to 
relate to Mary her son’s visit to Meadowes Court ; to talk of Amy 
and her mother ; and above all, of Henstead Yicarage — of her 
good old grandfather, of whom the sick boy was the namesake : 
and of the venerable widowed grandmother who, once a year 
in the childhood of Gertrude Meadowes, used to visit Gloucester- 
shire for a peep at the dear Mary who was slaving for her support. 

“I was veiy, very fond of old Mrs. Hargood,” added Lady 
Davenport. “ I sometimes almost envied Mary her mother ; 
who was far milder than mine. I felt that for her^ I would have 
done all Mary was doing.’-’ 

From one so reserved as Lady Davenport, such remarks as 
these were a greater proof of confidence than Mary could then 
understand. But she was thankful to her for placing her family 
in so pleasant a light; and strange to tell, slie heard more of her 
relations during the ensuing half-hour, than, during her whole 
preceding life, she had heard from her father. But for the sour 
portraits in his writing-room, she might have had some reason 
indeed for surmising that she was the daughter of a found- 
ling. 

When taking leave, after a long visit. Lady Davenport ven- 
tured to remark on the cold hand and palid cheeks of her young 
friend. 


278 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


“ You must be completely shut up in this close room, my dear 
Miss Hargood,” said she. “ If to-morrow should prove a good 
day with our poor little patient, j^ou must take a short airing, 
with Olivia and her brother. Tliey will call for you at about this 
lioul*; and Madame Winkelried shall bring some picture-books, 
and assume your place here till you return. Don’t be afraid to 
trust her. Slie is the best old soul in the world. Ask Hugh 
and Marcus through how many influenzas and sore throats she 
has nursed tliem.” 

Mary accepted and was'grateful. What Lady Davenport pro- 
posed could not fail to be riglit and good ; and sAe at least knew 
better than to decline any frie'ndly overtures made to her all but 
friendless little brother. 

She was still stationed at the window of tl>e old lofty attic, 
peering down into the court below, to see the last of the depart- 
ing carriage in whicli Olivia had been sitting waiting for lier 
mother. And as it; disappeared through tlie huge iron gates, she 
felt as if she had lost a friend. 

In the centre of the small court-yard or front-garden, consti- 
tuting the cou?’ dlionneur of the Academy, grew an aged cedar; 
such as may be seen in almost every suburban garden on tho 
northern banks of the Thames, derived from the nursery of Sir 
Ilans Sloane in the old Physic Garden at Chelsea : a melancholy 
looking tree, apparently moulting, so spare was its verdure and 
so grey tlie moss encumbering its upper branches out of reach 
of the gardener’s ladder. 

Into the heart of this dreary tree, which had as completely 
overgrown the little garden as. tlie celebrated American parsnip 
the garden well in which it had accidentally taken root, — did 
Mary look down ; noting the happy birds flitting among its 
branches as cheerily as though it had been a huge rose-tree 
blooming in the gardens of Damascus. 

Wiiile moralising on their gaiety and her own dejection, for 
which she called herself severely to account as unbecoming a 
moment bringing gladness to the whole flimily, she leaned against 
the open window-frame, to inhale that delicious fragrance of 
early summer, from the sweeibriars and honeysuckles of sur- 
rounding shrubberies; and in spite of herself, tears camo into 
her eyes while reflecting on the grievous disproportion of birth 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


279 


between herself and her new friends ; not as likely to influence 
their feelings towards herself, but as certain to provoke the 
surly arrogance, which her father mistook for greatness of 
mind. 

Before those tears had gathered strength to fall, however, the 
sound of a light footstep caused her suddenly to turn round ; 
and Lord Davenport, already in the room, was instantly by her 
side. 

He had probably met his mother’s carriage, and, on learning 
that Miss Hargood was alone, keeping watch over the slumber- ' 
ing patient, had found it impossible to wait for the appointed 
meeting of the following day. On presenting himself for ad* 
mittance, the “Open Sesame’^ of his coronet procured him of 
course a ready entrance into Hopsonia. 

Is it fair to relate what followed ? Is it fair to describe the 
influence exercised over a heart, for the first time desperately in 
love, by the sight of two large expressive eyes, “ each about to 
have a tear,” but lighted up with sudden joy at sight of the in- 
truder ! Even the obtuse Laird of Dumbiedikes admitted the ir- 
resistibility of Jeanie Deans, when her eyes glanced “ like lamour 
beads” under the effects of the same touching suffusion ; and so 
it v.'as that the evident despondency of Mary Hargood, forced 
from the tender-hearted Lord Davenport a full avowal of his 
passion and his hopes, at least four-and-twenty hours before pru- 
dence and propriety warranted the confession. 

The spot was strangely chosen for it: — that meagre attic, — 
that cheerless prospect: — how little in accordance with the noble 
position of the one, — with the graceful refinement of mind of the 
other! Yet then and there were those few words mutually* 
spoken which reciprocally explained to both the emotions of their 
hearts, and_ cemented them to each other, for time and for 
eternity. 

To find her pale, nervous, tremulous, so completely upset the 
sage intentions of poor Hugh, that cold-blooded wisdom preached 
in vain. Blessings on his lo-sv-voiced exhortations, and gentle 
endearments 1 Blessings on the opiates which caused little 
Frank to sleep on and on, through the afternoon ; till the birds 
began to hover round their nests in the topmost branches of tho 
mossy old cedar. There was, however, still light enough for 


280 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


Lord Davenport to, discover upon the no longer faded cheeks of 
his own dear Mary, the soft hlooin, like the delicate lining of a 
sea-shell, wliich denoted the awakened sensibility of her long- 
reserved nature. 

“ Yonr kindness,” said she, “has averted the only drawback 
that could have embittered my personal pi ospects of happiness. — 
You have so altered the j)osition of the family, that I am no 
longer wanted at home. Do not think me ungracious if I own 
that I shall be all the happier as your wife, froit^f knowing that I 
shall not be missed by my brothers or fathei\” 

Just so would Lord Davenport have had her think and feel, 
Kot a thought or sentiment of Mary’s that he could not echo 
from the bottom of his heart. * . 

When they parted, — for the poor little fellow could not sleep 
for ever, and became clamorous for water or lemonade, — it was 
agreed that the driving-party should still take place on the mor- 
row. In the incerim, he was to apply to her father, who was al- 
ready installed in his new office, for his sanction to his addresses. 

“I will not conceal from you, dear Mary,” said he, “that 
among my recent satisfactions has been an observation made to 
me by Mr. Hargood on accepting the appointment which Govern- 
ment enabled me to offer him. ‘If,’ he said, ‘your lordship’s 
patronage has any ulterior views involving my daughter, — in 
plain English, if you expect that Mary will, at some future time, 
become the wife of your brother Marcus, I owe it to all parties 
to say that her feelings towards him are unchanged. !She lias 
clearly proved to me that between them there exists a total in- 
compatibility of temper and character.’ Now, as all the world 
is of opinion that no two human beings were ever more dissimi- 
' lar than myself and Mark, I could not help hoping, darling, that, 
where AVhito had been rejected. Black might possibly have a 
chance.” 

Poor little Ned Hargood, when he stole in for a moment to 
wish his sister and sick brother good-nigh't, ere he repaired to his 
truckle-bed, could scarcely make out what Avas come to Marv. 
She strained him so earnestly to her heart,~she mingled some- 
thing so much like a maternal benediction with her usual kiss! 
Nay, unless he was much mistaken, tears had fallen from her 
eyes upon his cheek. Why should she cry now^ ho wondered, 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


281 


■when Frank •was out of pain and pronounced to be completely 
out of danger ? 

Could any of the many-daughtered London dowagers who, for 
the last ten years, had been paying their addresses to the heir of 
Ilford Castle and his coronet, — aided by the means and appli- 
ances of balls and dinners, — picnics and Greenwich parties, — 
operas and French plays, — have surmised how little is required 
to bring a man to the point of proposal when once he has got his 
own consent to be married, they might have kept their money 
in their pockets ; and Mitchell, the Trafalgar, and the Star and 
Garter, have been considerably the losers. 

The quiet indolent Hugh had become, on a sudden, twice as 
impetuous as Mark ; like the still water which, having once over- 
leapt the dam, dashes on in headlong vigour. Sir Gardner Dal- 
inain, who met him that evening in the lobby of the House of 
Commons, in search of hisfidus Achates Billy Eustace, to confido 
to him the secret of his approaching happiness, protests to this 
day that on shaking hands with him and inquiring after his 
health. Lord Davenport replied with evident aberration of in- 
tellect, “Yes, for ever and ever.” But previous to this Malvolio- 
like exhibition, having rashly voted in a division of the Lords, 
for which the vigilant Whip laid violent hands upon him, and to 
which he had previously pledged himself, he is said, like Sir 
Francis Wronghead in the play, to have cried “Ay” wdien ho 
ought to have cried “Ho.” His worst friend, in short, could 
liardly have hoped to see him more desperately in love. 

Poor little Frank Hargood had no fault to find with the ar- 
rangement which brought the good-humoured old Trot, Madame 
AVinkelried, the following afternoon, to relieve the sick guard of 
sister Mary; provided as she was with strawberries and cherries, 
Avith Otto Speckter’s charming story-books, and the still better, 
nay best in the world, tales for one of his years. Miss Edgworth’s 
Parents’ Assistant. When the old lady proposed to read aloud 
to him the incomparable story of Lazy Lawrence, it must have 
required, on Mary’s part, a considerable inclination towards the 
company of Olivia and her brother Avho were impatiently Avait- 
ing for her, or perhaps toAvards the grassy shady glades of 
liichmond Park to Avhich they Avere bound, to seduce her from 
remaining one of the audience. 


28 ^ 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


Lord Davenport was the bearer of a letter from her father ; a 
letter of unqualified and gratified consent to his proposal. He 
could not, however, refrain from observing that, as the mutual 
understanding between the young couple must have been of some 
duration, he felt that he might have been earlier consulted ; ad- 
ding, that Mary must dispense with his coming in person to con- 
gratulate her, as the business of his new office had paramount 
claims upon his time. 

Lord Davenport could have told her had he chosen, when a 
smile overspread her features at this last piece of information, 
that already Mr. Hargood was assuming the cut and jargon of an 
office man. Eight and-forty hours within the walls of the Trea- 
sury had already set their mark upon the middle-aged novice. 

They had a charming drive. A still pleasanter walk followed. 
The parks have been denominated, even in the grave ears of Par- 
liament, the “lungs of London.” But what name ought to be 
applied to those shady groves of Richmond, which, from the 
days of Strawberry Hill and Kitty Clive, till now, have annually 
favoured the flirtations of so many happy couples ? The charm- 
ing cavatina sung by Madame Damereau in L'Ainbassadrice — 

Que ces lieux coquets 
S’ils ii’etaient discrets 
• Diraient des secrets, 

would be far more appropriate to the Richmond avenues, than to 
the diplomatic box. Pew happier, perhaps, among them, than 
the pair who now wandered there, forming fabulous plans for 
future felicity. Olivia, who with the consciousness of seventeen, 
began to perceive that she should prove a pleasanter companion 
at a dozen yards’ distance than close by their side, was of opinion 
that never in her life had she seen two human faces so thorough- 
ly radiant. 

It seemed hard to Hugh that, for some days to come, their in- 
terviews must be of this public nature, as well as of limited du- 
ration. But it had been already decided and 'sanctioned by the 
surgeons, that as soon as the sick boy could be with safety re- 
moved in a bed-carriage, he and his brother were to anticipate 
by a week the Midsummer holidays, aud all the world was to be 
happy. 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


283 


“And never, I trust, again to return to durance and discom- 
fort with those Hopsons — the most wretched toadies I ever met 
with !” said Lord Davenport. “ When I have won a little on 
your father’s confidence, dearest Mary, and he begins to treat me 
like a son-in-law, I shall persuade him to let me place Frank at 
Woolwich, with a view to the Engineers; — his wall-scaling pro- 
pensities pointing him out as likely to do an honour to the ser- 
vice. As to our grave little Ned, there is a tolerable living with- 
in tliree miles of Ilford, that will be the very thing for him. Mr. 
ITargood will scarcely object to render hereditary in the family, 
his own father’s profession.” 

How happy was Mary to hear him talk thus thoughtfully. 
Those dear boys, whose precarious destiny had so often kept her 
pillow sleepless were about to be as kindly cared for as herself! 

When the appointed day arrived for their removal from Ham- 
mersmith, in spite of the restless desire of the only half-conva- 
lescent child to be gone, Mary almost regretted to take leave of 
the little, close, miserable attic, which had been to her Inore than 
the stateliest chamber of the noblest palace ; more than the 
Tribune at Florence — more than the Golden saloon at Augsburg. 

She rather dreaded the cold square room in Pulteney-street, 
with its Beccarian rewards and punishments, and old black 
leather table, groaning under uncut duodecimos — corpses for lite- 
rary dissection. 

But wharhad become of them all? When the disabled child, 
carefully rjiised from the carriage by Lady Davenport’s towering 
footman, was laid upon the most comfortable sofa ever invented 
by Dowbiggen, she looked round, and no longer recognised her 
former home. The writing-table was (by a consent with diffi- 
culty wrung out of Paterfamilias) shunted into a corner ; to 
make way for the sociable-looking round table, cheered by a vase 
of flowei*s from Ilford Castle, arranged by the delicate liands of 
Olivia ; several choice new volumes, and gifts and treasures in- 
numerable, not offered by the bridegroom elect, but by his 
rejoicing mother. 

“ How could she do enough,” she said, “ to testify her grati- 
tude to one who was about to confer happiness for life on the 
dearest and worthiest of sons!” 


284 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


CHAPTER xxxvn. 

Tjiofgh it deserves to be recorded in natural, or any other 
history, that poor Cocotte, under the tuition of her new master, 
had acquired a polyglot jargon unequalled since the confusion of 
Babel — compounded of all the tongues of ancient and modern 
Europe, with a little toucli of Sanscrit and Chinese, to the utter 
oblivion of her original cry of “Marcus, Marcus,” — let us not be 
a. moment supposed to have become equally forgetful. 

To follow-, step by step, the voyages or travels of a man of liis 
temper, spurred into frantic activity by recent rejection, would 
liave been as pleasant a fate as being tied to tlie tail of a kite, or 
stick of a rocket; and very much to be pitied was an invalid 
gentleman on his way to Alexandria, whose state cabin squared 
with that of Captain Davenport. Snatches of songs — soliloquies 
Compounded of Coal-Hole and Beranger — Corneille and Shake- 
speare — oaths on the smallest possible scale, succeeding to rhap- 
sodies to which those of Xat Lee would sound tasne and prosaic, 
wore distinctly audible from his berth, nearly three-and-twenty 
hours of the twenty-four. The Bay of Biscay, which was in a 
state of calm when the steamer’eut througli its blue waters, was 
probably overawed by the storm raging in the breast of the Ho- 
nourable Marcus. 

But these moral typhoons are seldom of long duration. Ilis 
anger soon raved itself to rest. Before they neared Gibraltar, ho 
had brought liimself to own that, after all, Mary might bo right; 
that their natures dissimilar ; and that with a wife possessed 
of such decided opinions and a will so much her own, he should 
probably have been a miserable man. 

Valuing and loving her, however, as much as ever, he solaced 
himself with the hope that the commission undertaken by Drewo 
would place her in some degree in the position she liad scorned 
to accept as his wife ; and by the time they reached Malta, 
calmer and still calmer reflection had convinced him that 
her fine sterling character, joined to the gentle confidingness 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


285 


of his brother, was eminently calculated to create a model 
menage. 

Such was tlie origin of the letter which, after some irresolu- 
tion and compunction, he addressed to Lord Davenport : admir- 
ing himself all the time, as being as fine an example of mag- 
naminity as Quintus Ourtius. After sealing and despatching it, 
he swallowed a tremendous glass of cognac and soda-water, the 
nepenthe of modern heroes ; and straightway paraded on deck, 
and whistled “Love not” in divers keys and with many varia- 
tions, till several squeamish passengers devoutly wished him 
overboard. 

To Parents and Guardians. Nota 'bene. That a long journey 
of any kind is a sovereign remedy for unhappy love, a sea voy- 
age, an unfailing specific ; and the Oriental and Peninsular Mail 
Company have first-class vessels chartered to sail every week, 
which are especially recommended for the purpose. 

'When Captain Davenport, hia gun-cases and colour-boxes 
reached Corfu, where his old regiment was quartered to recruit 
after severe service in the East, he had brought himself tolera- 
bly on a par with his fellow Christians ; and pleasant enough it 
•was to find himself once more among his old brothers in arms, 
released from military thraldom, wealthy and independent : rich, 
above all, in a capital Purdey and rifie, two couple of well-broke 
spaniels, within reach of the finest woodcock-shooting in the 
world. 'With such pleasures and pastimes in store, no chance at 
present of his taking a header from the Leuqadian promontory. 

Engrossed in field-sports, or interrupting them only when the 
pursuit of game led him into mountain-passes or sequestered val- 
leys appealing irresistibly to the exercise of the pencil, Marcus 
spent many weeks in Albania, endeavouring to forget there was 
a London on the surface of the globe, and earnestly wishing that 
the free and independent electors of Kawburne might be induced 
to forget 'him : or that, as he had never taken his seat, his return 
to Parliament might be cancelled. But the constant expectation 
of a peremptory recall served only to add zest to his travels ; 
and the Isles of Greece “ where burning Sappho ” and icy Byron 
“ loved and sung” were successively visited ; their fairer fea- 
tures sketched, their coverts thoroughly beaten. "When he re- 
turned to Corfu, — himself and his spaniels very little the worse 


286 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


for wear, — Mark- Davenport was nearly the same gay raanly fel 
low, who had fought like a hero in the Punjaub. 

While waiting to take a passage in the first steamer bound for 
Constantinople, enduring with as little patience as might be, 
during the Easter festivities, the noise of the petards whizzed in 
honour of St.- ^piridion, he chanced to^dine at the Government 
House, to meet a former brother officer of some distinction, that 
morning arrived from England ; who was of course beset by aU 
present for London news, — the last gossip of the Clubs — the an- 
ticipated chit-chat of the newspapers. Eor the tediousness of 
colonial exile does not fail to stimulate that wondrous appetite 
for tidings of marriages between titled persons with whom we 
have no acquaintance, and deaths of titled people in whom we 
have no concern, Avhich characterises the Great British Gobe- 
mouche. 

Mfjjor Ilarland had been questioned and cross-questioned till 
his mind grew a little confused, and his fashionable intelligence 
somewhat turbid ; so that he appeared hardly certain wLether 
it were Mario who lived in fear of the stiletto from Kachel, or 
Grisi in fear of the knout from the Emperor Nicholas, or vice 
versa. 

He was immediately attacked, by a facetious aide-de-camp, 
with inquiries whether Lord Brougham had not been corisecrated 
Bishop of- Cannes, and S. G. O. or D. C. L., Archbishop of 
Nomansland ; — and by Avoy of silencing this impertinent wag- 
gery, he began to recount the sudden distinctions of two rising 
politicians, — Lord Davenport in the Upper, William Eustace in 
the Lower House. 

“ By the way, my dear Mark,” added he, turning to Captain 
Davenport, “I was beset, on leaving London, with urgent mes- 
sages for you. Don’t look so frightened; they Avere neither 
from your tailor nor your tobacconist, nor Tattersall’s. Your 
brother, of whom I have been giving iieAvs to Avhicli you turn a 
deaf ear, threatens to marry and cut you out with a whole grove 
of olive-branches, if you do not instantly return to your Ps and 
Qs at Westminster.” 

“ It was scarcely like Davenport, my dear Harland, to load you 
with viva voce lectures Avhich he has delivered much more con- 
cisely by this morning’s mail,” replied Marcus, dryly. 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


287 


“ Well, then, — since you repudiate fraternal authority, tell me 
if you dare, that I was not assailed with a thousand inquiries con- 
cerning yourself and your prospects in life, by a fair widow, an 
old Indian flame of yours and mine, with whom I renewed my 
acquaintance the other day.” 

“The lady seems to have chosen her confldant discreetly,” 
said Marcus, with some bitterness. “ But however lightly you 
may treat her secrets, Ilarland, I will thank you to show more 
respect for mine.” 

At that moment, the courses were luckily changing, and the 
conversation was impeded ; much to the relief of several persons 
present who were aware of the gunpowder texture of Mark Da- 
venport’s temperament. AVheri cofiee was served after dinner, 
Major Ilarland seized the opportunity of taking tlie angry man 
apart, not to “ demand an explanation,” but to afford one, plea- 
santly and gratuitously, of all he had advanced. 

Faut pas m'en rouloir^ my dear Mark,” said he, “because 
Mrs. Burton lias a better memory than your own. ’Tis not my 
fault that you go about the world, breaking hearts, and leaving 
other people to pick up the bits.” 

“You were in Gloucestershire, then, before you left England?” 
inquired Davenport, coldly. “Mi's. Burton has for some years 
past resided with her father, near Cardington.” 

“Near fiddlestick ! I don’t believe you have inquired, the-^e 
linndred years past, what has become of your once idolized 
Rachel,” replied Ilarland, under the inspiration of a glass of 
Maraschino, produced in the “ Isles of Greece ” as potent as 
their Sapphics. 

“ In that case, by informing me what has become of her, you 
will assist a cause to which few people of my acquaintance have 
less conduced — the diffusion of useful knowledge,” — retorted 
Davenport, for he hated to have a hand profane laid on the ark 
of his domestic interests. 

“Well then, — know that she was my fellow passenger from 
Gibraltar to Malta.” 

“ To Malta ? You must be dreaming ! What on earth could 
take Mrs. Burton to Malta? On the eve of leaving town I was 
summoned by her lawyer to make an affidavit of Sylvester Bur- 
ton’s death, of which I was an eye-witness ; to assist some law- 


28S 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


plea slie was about to institute in behalf of her poor littlo 
girl.” 

“ She gained it ; and the child is a ward in Chancery, and an 
heiress. A few years hence, we shall see in the ’papers some 
spendthrift lord referred to tlie Master in charge of her wealth, 
to have a proper allowance settled upon the minor.” 

“ I doubt it. Little Sophy will survive neither to woman’s 
estate nor to her grandfather’s. Those Anglo-Indian children, 
poor shivering little atoms, — never prosper.” 

“ Yet one has heard tell of one Thackeray, and one Roebuck ; and 
last, and very far from least, what say you to poor Charles Bullen?” 

“ Well, if you will have it so,may Burton’s little gp*l grow up 
to write Pendennis, or become Judge Advocate !” 

“ I wish you would be serious ; for I assure you the case is far 
from mirthful. When Mrs. Burton and her little daughter were 
put on shore at Malta, our doctor heaved a sigh of relief. He 
had been afraid of a gale, or change of weather, he said : — when 
the life of the child would not have been worth four-and-twenty 
hours’ purchase.” 

“ You had a fortunate escape. A funeral at sea is a depressing 
operation,” replied Marcus, — doing his utmost to conceal the 
deep interest he took in Harland’s intelligence. 

“ Don’t be a brute !” cried the latter, provoked by his pre- 
tended indifference. “ Had you been on the spot, you would 
have been as deeply touched as I was by that poor woman’s 
heart-clinging to her declining child. I am no more of a mxiff 
than yourself, Mark. But, by Jove, I could hardly bear to see 
her on deck, hanging over the mattress where the poor little 
creature was daily led for the benefit of the Mediterranean 
breezes. It struck me as an all but providential coincidence that I, 
who like yourself, had so often carried little Soidiy an infant in 
arms, by w^ay of paying court to her pretty young mother, in a 
remote country so many thousand miles distant, should be on 
the spot to see the poor little thing resign the life for which she 
has ever since been struggling.” 

“ A hard fate, Mrs. Burton’s !” murmured Davenport, with 
emotion no longer to be disguised. “ Exile and a vile husband — 
exile and a dying child ! Ten weary years between, to complete 
the cycle of her sorrows I” 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


289 


Are you acquainted with any one at Malta ?” inquired Har- 
innd, glad to liave succeeded in reaching at last his vein of sensi- 
bility. ‘Mt w'ould be a great mercy to write and recommend 
her to the kinjlness of some lady of your acquaintance. She has 
no friend 'with her — nothing but servants. Had I not been 
oveixiue at head-quarters, I could not have resisted my inclina- 
tion to land w'ith her, and see her comfortably established, before 
I joined tlie regiment. You remember how quiet, and ladylike, 
and gentle, we always thought her. She is now twice as 
attractive. Country life in England, and the society of her own 
sex, has rendered her one of the most pleasing little women in 
the world !” 

Major Ilarland, a renowned chess-player, was at that moment 
summoned by the facetious aid-de-camp for the honor of a game 
with his chef ; and Marcus was left to make up his mind wdiether 
Constantinople or Malta afl'orded the most direct course to the 
discharge of his parliamentary duties. Setting geography at 
defiance (secure from the criticisms of the Drewes, Senior and 
Junior) ho made it a question of time or place. If time were to 
decide it, the odds lay in favor of his reaching England sooner 
eia the Dardanelles, than by taking Valetta in his way. 

Hut as nothing had transpired in public of the tidings commu- 
nicated by Major Harland, when it appeared that his name w^as 
included among the first-class passengers of the next homeward- 
bound mail-steamer, it was settled among his Corfuote friends 
that he had been suddenly summoned to London by a call of the 
House, It was only the captain who could have apprised them 
that the passage of the unstable Marcus was taken only as far as 
*‘the little military hot-house.” 

Among the tokens of change and progress remarkable in these 
our times, when, as an able American writer has expressed it, 
steam and electricity concentrate the significance of every pas- 
sing hour,” is the seeming ubiquity of people travelwise 
addicted ; and the probability of stumbling on an acquaintance in 
any possible public conveyance — whether on the Ganges or the 
Mississippi — across the Pampas or the Punjaub. 

The first person wdio hailed Captain Davenport from the 
paddle-box of the Strornboli, was a singular individual attired 

13 


2G0 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


“ in ft ScotcTr ” as Chateaubriand translates “ eii ccosmis ; in a 
tartan sliooting jacket, waistcoat, and trowsers, and a Highland 
cap, the incongruities of which W'ould have made Glasgow liide 
its head under its plaidie. Davenport was thorouglily puzzled j 
till, leaping on deck, tlie stranger all but embraced him while 
announcing himself as Grugemondc, Vons satez Men^ mon 
chcr ? Le Vicomte de Grugemondey 

“ You must easily recall to yourself, my dear friend,” added 
he, fearing that, ce bon Dnfngm't might have forgotten his 
French, “our charming country dinner at Eichmond with our 
friend Le Drew, and a sAvarthy man of letters wliich his name I 
forget, who made me eat cold butter with iny limandes^ what 
you call them, Thames flounders.” 

The memory of Marcus was no longer at fault ; and lie Avas 
soon ready to lend his ear and his sympathies to the mischances 
undergone since they parted, by tlie little be-Scoticized Vicomte. 
Small as he Avas, he had been fractured by the rcA'erberation of 
the coxi'p-d'' etat ; and was noAv one of many thousand exiles, 
more or less illustrious. Like nearly every Frencliman Avith 
tolerable abilities or education, he had been dabbling in press 
intrigues ; and seemed as surprised as indignant, that even an 
elective monarchy does not choose to be conspired against, with- 
out returning the enemy’s fire. 

He Avas noAv, he said, like Marins at Carthage, or his friends 
Dumas and Hugo Avherever they might be, “ eating the bitter 
bread of banishment.” His only consolation was that the pre- 
sent state of things could not last (Avhen did a banished intrigant 
over say otherAvise?) and the restoration to power and influence 
of himself and his friends, Avould once more restore in France 
the balance of power, and reassure the pacification of Europe. 

D'ailUurs pensons P' said he, in the words of his brother 
exile, Victor Hugo : 

“ Nos jours sont de« jours d’amertnme, 

Mais quand nous ^tendons les bras dans notre brume, 

Nous scutons ime main ; 

Quand nous marchons, courbes, dans I’ombre du martyre, 

Nous entendon qnciqu’im derriere nous, nous dire 
C’est ici le chemin I” 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE, 


291 


Mark Davenport laughed — but only in the sleeve of his pilot- 
coat, at the fluttering of the fly on the wheel ; strongly of opinion 
that poor Grugemonde had better extend his attempts at 
national reform, to eating cold butter with flounders. But it 
served to beguile the tediousness of the voyage far better than 
the sight of flying-fish and dying dolphins, with which his Medi- 
terranean experiences rendered him over familiar, to listen to the 
marvellous histories related by this diamond edition of a conspir- 
ator, as only a Frenchman knows how to moutli his nothings ; 
with his far-extended right hand inverted and closed, save the 
second finger, serving as an index to his eloquence ; after the 
form of the coral charms against the evil eye, worn by the fish- 
ermen of Naples. 

The Vieomte de Grugeraond evidently considered his quality 
of to be like his miraculous tartans, “ trh-hieii 

porte and fancied that he had achieved a position for life, as 
a victim of the coup d'etat. It was a surprise as well as a deep 
mortification to liim to learn from Mark that he had no chance 
of becoming, as ho evidently expected, a great lion under the 
pilotage of “ ce cher Le Drew^'' throughout the remnant of the 
London season ; and that the exiled patriot market had been so 
long overstretched, that, let a Lucius Junius Brutus make his 
appearance, with his estates ever so confiscated, or his papers 
ever so burned by the public executioner, he would have little 
chance of picking up a decent livelihood nearer the centre of 
civilisation than New York. So long as we deposit our own 
rebels at Spike Island, it would be absurd indeed to offer a pre- 
mium to foreign disaffection. 

The little Vieomte, though somewhat crest-fallen, still seemed 
to trust in the charm of position affreuse Marcus 

found that he was undertaking a volume of unedited memoirs, 
likely in all probability to consign to durance.vile a score or two 
of his Parisian confederates; as the frontispiece to which, him- 
self and his tartans, sketched by a far more illustrious exile, 
Gavarni, were to figure as a sample "of the last invented Coriola- 
nus of the Boulevart des Capucins. 

As they approached Malta, however, Captain Davenport gave 
less attention to the mock heroics of his companion than to the 


292 


rROGRESS AND PREJTDICE. 


uneasy suggestions of his own mind. Like the gallant carl of 
Peterborough, 

He said to his heart betwixt sleeping and waking, 

“ Thou wild thing that art always leaping or aching, 

what is to become of us both, if little Sophy Burton’s despairing 
mother should treat us with the contumely we have so richly 
deserved ?” 

It required some courage, and that courage he found in his 
consciousness of superiority to all mercenary motives, to approach 
Mrs. Burton at all. For he had left her poor, and was seeking 
her, wealthy. But he knew that it was his own want of fortune, 
not hers, which had rendered it impossible for him to offer her 
his hand ; and would not believe that ?iis motives could be mis- 
interpreted. 

It was evening when he landed ; and so much had the mer- 
cury in his veins been depressed by misgivings, that he did not 
bestow more than lialf an oath, in lingua franca or any other 
lingo, upon the noisy touters besetting him on the quay. 

There Avas little difficulty in ascertaining at the Consular 
Office the residence of a person so newly landed as liirs. Burton. 
She had been fortunate in securing a small but lovely villa, half 
a mile from the city, called tlie Marino Sant ’Uberto. But let 
no future sojourner in the Island of Saintly Knightliood extinct, 
and oval oranges still flourishing, attempt to discover the spot, 
(if indeed there exist a man capable of attempting to realise the 
localities of modern romance, save that genial enthusiast. Lord 

S ;) for the fortifications completed last year by a barbarous 

Governor, destroyed the last vestige of tliis terrestrial Paradise ! 


CHAPTER XXXYIII. 

Less philosophic in liis generation than Athenian Socrates, 
Hargood did not seem to enjoy that delightful titillation of the 
epidermis ensuing the removal of manacles, declared by that 
eminent sage to be a sufficient indemnification for previous 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


293 


bondage. He rather resembled those modern martyrs, who, 
having worn all day a coat too tight in the arm-holes, kept hitch- 
ing and grumbling on, even after the offending garment has given 
place to a wadded wrapper. 

He was not quite satisfied to find that his place had been 
readily filled up; and that his value in the literary market was 
only that of one of the mechanical portions of a mighty engine: 
one of the fourteen thousand mirrors contained in the eye of a 
bluebottle. Misled by the overweaning “ Tr<?,” he had been so 
long permitted to emblazon on a scutcheon of pretence, he had 
calculated the square of his pedestal on too vast a basis ; and 
dreamed not that there may exist as must disparity between we 
and WE, as the thunder of Olympian Jove and a Oremorno 
cracker. v 

1 am rejoiced, dear Hugh, to find you have got a good birth 
for Hargood,” wrote Marcus in reply to his brother’s first com- 
munication, purporting to prepare the way for the announce- 
ment of his marriage ; “ for lie is an able scholar, and an upright 
and honorable man. But now you have extricated him from 
the Blindman’s buff of his critical calling — and removed the 
bandage from his eyes, extend your kindness further, and let him 
see something of living authors and politicians. Dizzy, in his 
Vivian Greyhood, used to say he hated the society of literary 
people — they -were so xery illiterate. Hothing struck me more 
in Hargood than his utter ignorance of the literary tastes and 
tendencies of the age. Professional critics see nothing in a book, 
but the passages to be extracted. The soul of its goodness is as 
invisible to them as to eyes profane, the spirits revealed to the 
Sclierinn xon Prevor^it. I should really like the old fellow to 
hear a little strong, strfiightforward talk about books, and men, 
and measures, concerning w’hich he has been mining his "way in 
lelter-press for the last five-and-twenry years, like Queen Emma 
charily creeping among the burning ploughshares. Let him have 
a glimmer of Macauley, Austin, Fonblanque — Bulwer and 
Smythe, Dickens and Milner, and ho will come down from his 
stilts. Don’t let him fancy himself too great an oflScer, or that 
it is decreed — ■ 


Sit Cato, dum vivet, sarie vel Ccesare major.” 


294 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


Lord Davenport knew better than to follow such advice. He 
would as soon have offered to a pastrycook’s apprentice a banquet 
of cheese-cakes, followed by a digestive pill. He had already 
perceived that Hargood was becoming as anxious as the worldly- 
minded, but (in spite of Thackeray) most witty Congreve, to 
emancipate himself fully and completely from what is called the 
livery of the Muses. Perhaps he thought this a becoming tribute 
to the dignity of his future son-in-law! More likely, he was 
vexed at finding his very name unknown among the conscnpt 
fathers of the republic of Letters, to whom he was now, for the 
first time, presented. _ 

One of the questions chiefiy agitated between the families in 
Pulteney-street and Spring Gardens, Avas the time and place to 
be selected for the Avedding. The anniversary of the late Lord 
Davenport’s death Avas overpast ; the achievement Avith its 
ghastly emblems of mortality, removed from the front of tlie 
house ; the family liA-eries restored to their Avonted colours ; so 
that there Avas no impediment to OliA’ia appearing as bridesmaid 
to the sister-in-law she was prepared to love so dearly. But the 
other? Mary could not bear the thought of renouncing the 
presence of her darling Amy. It Avas hoAvever impossible for 
Lady Meadowes to quit Radensford Rectory at the very moment 
the worst tidings Avere expected from the Mediterranean? Even 
a proposal that Amy should quit her mother for a day or tw'o, 
and become a guest in Spring Gardens for the marriage solem- 
nity, met Avith a decided refusal. “It Avould be unpardonable if, 
at such a crisis, she were to desert her mother and their venera- 
ble friend.” 

That she felt it far more impossible to meet "William Eustace 
at the altar under the circumstances of the ca-e, Miss Meadowes 
did not think it necessary to expound. But, knoAving from Lady 
Davenport that her son was to officiate as bridesman to her sou, 
and nothing doubting that his betrothal to lier cousin Olivia 
Avould, on this solemn family gathering, he decided, she felt un- 
equal to the occasit)!). If the Hargoods thought themselves for- 
tunate that Marcus, accidentally detained at Malta, Avould spare 
them the embarrassment of his presence, Amy congratulated 
herself quite as much that she had so good a pretext for remain- 
ing quietly in the country. 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


295 


She heard daily from Olivia liow everything was going on ; 
how speedily dear Mary liad endeared herself to all their hearts; 
how Mr, Hargood was constantly at his new office ; and how the 
family diamond had been reset, and presented to one who, hav- 
ing gratified her future mother-in-law by placing them round her 
slender throat and graceful brow, looked, thus suitably adorned, 
more queenly than a queen. ^ 

Jt was much tliat, under all these details, Amy grew neither 
envious nor jealous. Would it could be added that she was not 
growing miserably unhappy. 

One evening, at the close of June, Lord Davenport having per- 
suaded his mother to allow Olivia, escorted by her ex-governess, 
to chaperon liis brid-e elect to the Opera, an inostensible box 
was secured ; and at an early hour, they were prepared to enjoy 
a representation of the divine Favorita of Donizette. It v^as to 
be one of Grisi’s last appearances in the part ; and Mary had 
never seen either the actress or the piece; never in short, save 
oil one occasion as a child, been present at an opera. The fear 
that she might altogether lose the delight of Grisi’s now preca- 
rious voice, if tlie attempt were postponed, had prompted Lord 
Davenport to overeome the scruples of his mother. 

Perhaps lie would have urged his request less eagerly in behalf 
of liis beloved Mary, bad he been prepaj*ed for the sensation 
eansed by this first appearance in public. Tliough her dress was 
of tlie very simplest kind, and though she remained by choice, 
completely in the back-ground, yet a glimpse obtained of her in 
the lobby, on her way to the box, by a knot of Cruxlyans, loung- 
ing near their own omnibus, sufficed to attract all eyes towards 
the “beautiful Nobody, whom Davenport is about to marry.” 
Once seen, she was not likely to be again overlooked. 

Among the fashionable critics, some discovered in tlie new 
beauty the blended features of the Undying One and a lovely 
Irisli marchioness, in the best days of both. Others, the classical 
iiead of the Amberwitch, enhaRced by the grace of the Virginia 
Lady. The artists present referred her countenance to the ma- 
gical spell- binding framed picture by Van Holt at Lansdowno 
House. But all agreed that, save in the Clytra of the National 
Museum, so perfect a model of female beauty never demajided 
l^er^ietuation from sculpture. 


290 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


“ Vexatious enougli to have to own that great reformer Da- 
venport to be ill the right,” observed one of the Cruxleyans. 
“I hoped he had found a mare’s nest; and it turns out to be 
that of a Phoenix!” 

“But one must get an Act of Parliament passed to prevent 
his immuring this superb creature. It would be a national cala- 
mity!” observed Lord Curt, without withdrawing his glasses 
from the Davenport box. “ She looks as if she had stepped from 
a canvas by Van Dyck.” 

“ But Van Dyck has been dead a good many years,, hasn’t he, 
uncle ?” demanded the innocent Captain Tollemache. 

“ A couple of ages, or so. But that is nothing now-a-days. 
lie paints still, through a medium, in Hades, whenever he gets a 
good order.” 

“ But I thouglit the famous medium’s name was Iladen, not 
Hades?” 

“ Don’t begin to my good fellow, or you won’t be worth 

half the money. The difference lies between an B. and H. ; — an 
asinine objection. But who has spoken to Davenport to-night? 
Is he affable ? Is he likely to present one to his bride?” 

“ See ! he is at this moment presenting Eustace!” 

“ Eustace is one of the family. He is about to become the 
pastor and master of yonder little pet-lamb, with a blue ribbon' 
round its neck.” 

“I hope not. Two such paragons in our family as Eustace 
and Davenport, would be turbot upon turtle,” said Lord Cui-t. 
“One should see them going down to posterity hand in hand in 
marble, on canvas, or bound in calf for the use of schools — like 
Damon and Pythia.s — Harmodious and Aristogiton — or Stern- 
hold and Hopkins ! Ho, Ho ! I mean the little pet-larab to 
marry my nephew Tollemache here. She would supply the 
Simple in their menage^ and he, the tony 

“Let the boy alone, Curt,” cned his favourite disciple. “You 
always drive him out of the box.” 

“For the credit of tlie family taste, I trust he is gone to the 
stalls to obtain a nearer view of the future Lady Davenport, i 
would do as much myself, if diffidence and the gout did not 
stand in my way.” 

“ Look at her now. By Jove I the Diane ehasseresae of the 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


297 


Louvre is not fit to hold a lucifer match to her!” cried his 
doxible^ directing his glasses full upon Mary ; who, touched to the 
heart by the exquisite fourth act of the Favorita out of all con- 
sciousness of the public stare, was leaning forward to listen, in 
the ecstasy peculiar to those of whom music is the natural language. 

Eustace, who was still lingering in the box, surveyed her with 
wonder; Davenport, with adoration; the former secretly con- 
gratulating l)imself that the lady of his thoughts had a little less 
of the music in her nature and bearing. 

“ I should always fancy I saw the making of a Clytemnestra,” 
thought he, “ in that terribly Grecian line of features. I can’t 
fancy her and that fellow, Davenport, united in holy matrimony. 
They will be like the mismatched halves of tAVO five-pound- 
notes, rendered blank by the junction.” 

“I am a little disappointed in your friend,” was on the other 
liand the verdict of Mary, the following day, after the admirable 
])erformance of the night before had been feelingly discussed 
between them. “ I said nothing about him last night, as dear 
little Livy was present. But he really seems to me a dull, 
reserved young man. His air of being dhabuse du monde is so 
out of keeping with his age and prospects.” 

“ Show more mercy to a man in love ! Eustace is far from 
happy.” 

“Not happy in company Avith hxs fiancee^ and choisee by her 
Avhole family?” 

“ Be pleased, my little Avife that is to be, to talk English, and 
talk sense. Surel}^ dearest, you are not one of those who fancy 
that William Eustace is to be my brother-in-law ? My father 
and his used to talk the matter over Avhen there AA'as an occa- 
sional armstice in their Avarfare concerning long and short- 
horned cattle. But this A\'as the very thing to prevent it. 
Besides, I hope my mother Avill enjoy for some years to come, 
the comfort of Olivia’s society, She is too young to marry.” 

“I grant you. But in that case, by av horn is he rendered 
unhappy ?” 

Aha! Have I worked upon your curiosity, at last, and 
forced you into a question you ought to have asked long ago?” 

“Perhaps I was too proud — or too lazy.” 

13 * 


298 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


“ Neither. You fell in one of those mistakes which produces 
half the evils in the world— you took things for granted. 

‘ Everybody ’ says that Eustace is too marry my sister, and as 
there is no smoke without fire — and as V unitersaU non sHn- 
ganna — Olivia is of course to be Mrs. Eustace !’■ 

“ I plead guilty. I believed it all. And therefore forbore to 
question you concerning what you did not communicate, 
unquestioned.” 

“Well then; question me now; and I will fairly own that 
Eustace never evinced the smallest inclination to become my 
brother ; and that, highly as I value him, it would have an- 
noyed me if he had. I should scarcely have liked poor little 
Livy to become daughter-in-law to.Lady Louisa : a formal, cold- 
hearted woman, alive only to the opinion of the world, who has 
lived all her life in trammels of her own devising, which have 
imparted to her nature the same constrained uneasy uprightness 
which irons worn in youth impart to the human shape.” 

“ But Olivia would have married the son^ not the mo- 
ther 

“I am afraid I entertain rather foreign notions concerning the 
influence a mother is entitled to exercise over the wife of her 
son. To me a telle mere is’ ’ — 

“ Be pleased, my tall husband that is to be, to talk English and 
talk sense ; and, without further circumspection, to give up the 
maiden name of my future friend Mrs. William Eustace.” 

“ I did not tell you that he was going to be married. I told 
you he was deeply in love.” 

“ If not with Olivia, then, it is with Madame Winkelried ; for 
he is never but of your house.” 

“ If you have not guessed nearer the mark than that, you are 
very stupid. If you have, you are a little hypocrite to force me 
to tell you what you know as well I do.” 

“ Well, then, I am a little hypocrite. Only speak out!” 

“ As if you were not perfectly aware that, from the period of 
that miserable fever at Kadensford, which nearly cost Eustace 
his life, and did cost my poor uncle’s, he has been devotedly 
attached to Amy Meadowes !” 

“ I know that he formerly admired her. But I also know" that 


PllrtGRESS AND r-REJUDICE. 


299 


fi’om that time to this, there has been no eommunication between 
them. Traitor! why have you kept me so long in the dark ?” 

“ Because Eustace imposed discretion on me. He begged me 
to leave yon to yonr surmises ; convinced that, between 
two girls, two cousins, there must exist sufldcieut esprit de 
corps to ” — 

“ English, if your lordship pleases ” — 

“ Enough female confederacy, then, to induce you to apprise 
poor Amy of the steadfastness of his attachment ” — 

“ And if I did f ’ 

“ If you did, prematurely, you would expose him to the pro- 
bability of a second rejection.” 

“He did propose to her, then?” inquired Mary, from whom 
the delicacy of Amy Meadowes towards Eustace had hitherto 
reserved the fact. * 

He did, and most inopportunely ', while still in deep aflSic- 
tion for her father’s death, and sharing, perhaps, the general 
opinion that Eustace had been the means of introducing into the 
neighbourhood the fatal infection.” 

“ But had she entertaineil any real aftection for him, that un- 
toward circumstance. Lady Louisa’s fault rather than his, would 
not have induced her to refuse him ” — 

“ She entertained no affection for him, or for anybody. She 
was too young. Slie was a spoiled child. She did not know 
what she wanted.” 

But why slioiild she know better now?” 

By wanting it, Amy has discovered that the world is not 
at her feet. That, of the few men she has known, I and Marcus, 
for instance, never dreamed of falling in love with her. And 
she has consequently discovered, or will discover in time, that to 
have secured the permanent affections of a man of first-rate prin- 
ciples and intellect, well-looking, well-born, well-mannered, is 
a blessing not to be trifled with.” 

“ And so, all this has been a foul conspiracy betwixt you and 
your friend, against my poor little helpless cousin!” 

“ Y7ith the best intentions towards her, on my part, I dearly 
love Amy. She is the prettiest, blithest little bird in the world; 
and will make the sweetest of wives and mothers. But she 
wanted bringing to reason ; and to reason, I trust, she has beat 


300 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


brought. From the first, I was aware of Eustace’s continued 
preference and intention to renew his suit if ewer he saw an 
opening \vith any prospect of success ; and having, during 
her sojourn at liadeusford, constantly seen her letters to Livy 
and to yourself ” — 

“ Again I say, traitor 1 How w’as I to suppose that in asking 
to see them, and obtaining an insight into ail her little frank in- 
genuous avowals, you -were gathering up mischiefs to be con- 
veyed to your friend !”. 

“ As yet I have not told him a Avord. I leave him to make 
his own discoveries.” 

“ Then why so anxious yourself to ascertain the state of her 
mind?” 

“ Because, having the greatest regard for Eustace, I was eager 
to satisfy myself of his, prospects of happiness. Had I only 
breathed to him all I saw, and heard, and deeply enjoyed seeing 
and hearing, the other day Avhen I Ausited Eadensford in search 
of your father, I should have been haAung him start off the fol- 
lowing day, perhaps startling her again to take refuge on her 
pedestal of maidenly pride; or if Amy understood her own hap- 
piness sufficiently to accept him at once, and be thankful, lose 
him for the remainder of the session, Avhen he is of the utmost 
use and value to us here !” 

“ A party job, after all ! I Avish you kneAV how thoroughly I 
am ashamed of you !” said Mary, with assumed indignation ; “ I 
have a mind to Avrite this A'ery moment to my cousin and 
encourage her to play the Beatrice to the last moment, with this 
impertinent Benedict.” 

“ Just the esprit ” — 

“ Hush ! English and common sense !” 

“ In the plainest English, then, and common sense, if you are 
bent upon acquainting Amy Meadowes that there is a miserable 
man burning to throw himself and a handsome fortune at her 
feet, you may enclose her a letter Avhich I have this morning 
undertaken to forward to her, through my aunt ” — 

“ From Mr. Eustace ?” 

From Hamilton Drewe; who, from poet that he Avas, has been 
struck unspeakably prosy by the sight of two fair cousins Avhom 
he seems to have surprised, in a family group, in this very room.” 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


301 


“ The animal ! I well remember his breaking in upon us.” 

“At first, his sensitive lieart inclined towards the darker 
beauty. But, finding her devotedly attached to myself — I beg 
your pardon— of course I mean finding me devotedly attaclied to 
her — he thought it better to alter the epithets in the Sonnet 

addressed ‘To beginning: ‘O angel bright!’ or words 

to that effect. And ever since old Wroughton Drewe’s fortune, 
added to his own, has enabled him to offer to Miss Meadowes 
what ho considers a suitable position (and for a poet, he has 
wonderfully material notions about town and country houses, 
pin-mone}', jointure, and so forth), he has been wild to throw 
himself at her feet. Poor Drewe has been running about with 
his letter in search of me — from Spring Gardens hither, from 
hence to Lincoln’s Inn, from Lincoln’s Inn to the House of 
Lords — like a dramatic author after a manager, with his MS. 
sticking out of his pocket — till the poor letter is literally worn at 
the edges. Ecce sujnumV' said Lord Davenport, drawing from 
his pocket-book an epistle as limp and shapeless as though it had 
arilved per mail from Rio Janeiro. 

“And am I to forward to Amy this unsightly article ?” 

“ Certainly. But if you despise its form and pressure, what 
would you say to its contents 1” 

“ You have not surely read it ?” 

“I have had it, alas! read tome. "When he caught me at 
length, Drewe did not spare me, I promise you. But that I 
know he had previously recited it to half-a-dozen members of his 
club, I should fiincy myself especially favored ; and that under 
my unfortunate circumstances as an engaged man, Drewe might 
suppose me in want of a model for the letters I address you.” 

“ But you address me none. Less fortunate than Amy, /must 
submit to be bored through the ear rather than the eye — by far 
the less evitable evil.” 

“To punisli your sauciness, dear darling Mary, I am half 
inclined to favor you w’ith such an ei>istle as Drewe’s, containing 
‘Selections from popular poets ’—English, French, German, 
Italian— besides his own most poetical i)rose. Just such a far- 
rago, in short, as his speeches on the hustings. Is it not strange 
that a good-hearted fellow like Drewe cannot be one moment 
natural?” 


302 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


Natural! I never saw a man Avho better merited .the 
name ! But it is really a pity to send such a letter to Amj’, 
she will only laugh at the writer.” 

“The best thing that can happen to him. All Hamilton 
Drevve requires is to be laughed out of his absurdities 5 just as all 
Amy wanted was a little uncertainty touching her power over 
the heart with which she had trifled.” 

“ After all, I am afraid I have pledged my fate to a Pombal, 
an Alberoni, a Richelieu, a Sir Robert Walpole, instead of the 
honest man I fancied you ! I am half inclined to give back this 
ring, dear Hugh, and demand in exchange iny lock of hair!” 

“Better not. You will be asking for it back again before the 
day is over! Well, well! I ask pardon on my bended knees. 
People so happy as I am are apt to get saucy. If I dared 
address you in French, I should say, quejai le 'bonJieur insoleyit. 
And now, let us look for a large envelope, and enclose to ‘ Miss 
Meadowes, Radensford Rectory,’ an amount of British and other 
classics that will cost you at least three blue postage stamps for 
conveyance.” 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

At his last visit to Valetta, in early spring time, Marcus had 
endured cheerfully in favour of his artistic gratifications, both 
sun and sirocco, and all the noise and formalities of a fortified 
city. The lightness and cheeriness of the scene — the pearl-like 
whiteness of the city, embedded in its sapphire sea, — the striped 
awnings, — the rose-coloured oleanders, the fragrant orange blos- 
som, had charmed him on his return from central India, — equally 
sultry, but unrefreshed by vicinity to the sea. 

How, at midsummer, all looked unpropitious : the white 
walls discoloured and degraded, — the heat intolerable, — the popu- 
lation a heterogeneous compound of the orts and ends of Europe. 
He was out of sorts. He was out of temper : and, like Byron 
on the same spot. 

Could only stare from out his casement, 

And ask for what is such a place meant. 

On presenting himself at the Marina Sant’ Uberto, he Lad been 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


303 


refused admittance. He could not take it for a personal rebuff, 
for to the respectable middle-aged English man-servant who 
opened the gate, no name had been announced. But he had 
reason to infer, from the man’s dejected manner, as well as from 
his answers, that “Miss Burton had derived no benefit from 
change of climate.” The “ baby ” progressed into “ Miss Burton !” 
Poor Marcus! What a reminder of the progress of time! 

That evening was dreary, indeed. Though Captain Daven- 
])ort had many friends in the garrison, he remained moping at 
the hotel ; and even for his saunter on the ramparts* selected 
the messhcmr, when he knew he should be secure from all mili- 
tary encounter. 

What was to be done ? Should he write? Should he renew 
his call ? To have come, then, for the sole purpose of watching 
over one apparently in need of protection, and keep aloof, con- 
science-stricken and ashamed, was a weakness foreign to his 
nature. On the spur of tlie moment, he set off a second time to 
the villa. Though an undue hour for visiting, it was the most 
enjoyable portion of tliose thickening summer days, fit only for 
cicadas and lizards; and this time he prepared himself before- 
hand with a few lines signed with his name; stating that an old 
friend was desirous of inquiring after the little girl, and ^offering 
his services to her mother. 

He had chosen his time auspiciously ; for Miss Burton, who 
was, as usual, watching beside the cane couch drawn towards the 
windows, for the benefit of the cooling evening breeze, where 
lay her little suffering charge, on finding that an answer was 
waited for, opened and perused the letter. An exclamation of 
“ Marcus Davenport?” — “Captain Davenport!” when the signa- 
ture met her eye, was not to be repressed. 

She was about instantly to dispatch by the servant a message 
of ceremonious thanks. But the name had caught tlie ear of 
her little companion. It was one associated with lier earliest 
impression — with dusky faces, swift borne palanquins — and the 
delicious fruits and flowers of a tropical country. No toys had 
ever half so much amused her, as those presented to her by 
Marcus. She had a vague recollection of being carried in his 
arms, in a city of domes and minarets; and returning homo 
laden wdth these varnislied delights. 


S04 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


With tlie eagerness of sickness, little Sophy entreated that 
“Marcus ” might not be sent away. She Avanted to see him 
again. 

Mrs. Burton demurred. It was the last thing on earth slio 
could have wished. But how to deny any request to the child 
Avhose days, — whose very hours Avere numbered ! There Avas 
nothing under the face of Heaven that Sophy could have asked 
for, Avhich her mother Avould not have made some Avild attempt 
to promise. 

In compliance with her little daughter’s tAvice-repeated request, 
therefore, she desired that Captain Davenport might be admitted; 
and a few minutes afterAvards, she felt, rather than saw, that he 
Avas approaching her through the tAvilight. 

A very few low and incoherent Avords were exchanged between 
them. For Rachel’s voice was broken by suppressed tears ; tears 
in Avliich Marcus Davenport had no more share than the bat that 
Avas flitting to and fro before the varandah- shaded windoAVs. She 
Avas thinking only of the child : — the tender-hearted child Avhom 
time nor absence had estranged from her earliest friend ; the child 
AA'hose loving heart Avould so soon cease to beat. 

Even !kfarcus seemed to be thoroughly occupied by Sophy. 
The little thin hand, scarcely human in its slenderness, Avhich she 
extended tOAvards him the moment he approached her, Avas 
silently raised to his lipsr A rougher movement seemed unfitted 
to its unearthly texture. 

“ Do you remember me?*’ asked hep faint little A-oice, as he 
bent toAvards her for the purpose. “And have you still got poor 
Cocotte? I have often thought of you both. -Why did you 
never come and see us, at grandpapa’s? I asked mamma. But 
she said you Avere not in England.” 

“I was very long absent.” 

“And Avhen you came back, you had perhaps forgotten us?” 

Another kiss bestoAved upon the little feeble hand Avhich he 
still held, Avas his reply. And little Sophy, feeling when he 
relinquished it, that it Avas Avet with tears, perceived Avith the 
double tact of childhood and of disease, that there must be no 
further allusion of the past. 

It Avas dusk almost to darkness ; so that neither could distin- 
guish the countenance of the other ; and under favour of this 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


305 


concealment Marcus cleared his voice and endeavoured to talk 
cheerfully of his voyage and of home. 

“ I can give you news of my cousin Amy,” said he ; “ who, I find, 
is occupying your post at Radensford Rectory during your absence.” 

‘‘ 1 heard this morning from home,” replied Mrs. Burton, in a 
tone of deep dejection. “ There, thank Heaven, all is well. Lady 
Meadowes more than supplies my place witli my dear old father ; 
and Amy is his constant companion.” 

“ And a cheerful and charming one,” added Capt. Davenport ; 
“ the kindest-hearted creature breathing. Amy and I often 
talked together of you, in England,” he added in a low voice to 
!^[rs. Burton ; but not so low as to escape the vigilant ear of the 
sick child. 

“ i\nd is Amy Meadows then your relation ?” said she, address- 
ing Marcus. “IIow strange, that she should never have told 
me so. But I ought to have guessed it. Dear good Amy ! 
She used to bring me fruit and flowers from Meadowes Court, 
just as you. Captain Davenport, used to give them to me in 
India. I think you are just alike — alike, that is, in kindness” — 

This was so much for the poor little creature to see and feel, 
that her mother trembled lest she should be tiring herself. 

“ You must not encourage lier to talk — you must not allow 
her to excite herself,” wLispered she to Mark. “ The slightest 
exertion, the doctors say, is too much.” 

“ Don’t believe them, mamma, don’t believe them, Marcus,” 
said the child, though gasping for breath. “The only thing that 
makes me worse is to be among strange faces — always, always 
among strange faces. And I feel much better this evening, only 
for seeing you. Marcus, do you remember the little gold heart 
you gave me on my birthday, when I was two years old ? I have 
got it still, in my desk at home. Among the few presents that 
were ever made me, I always loved it best, because it •w^a3 the 
first. Do you think, mother — do you — do you think I shall ever 
go back and open that poor old desk again ?” 

Was it -wonderful that with such appeals sounding in her ears, 
Rachel Burton should be as indiflerent to the presence of Captain 
Davenport, as to the cliair he sat on ! All his value in her eyes 
at that moment, was relatively to the little being whose voice 
•was soon to be heard no more. 


806 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


So true is that of her quoted sentence of La Rochefoucault 
“ that the things we most desire, are rarely realised ; or if they 
occur, it is at a moment when they have lost their ])ower to 
please.” The presence so earnestly sighed for at Radensford was 
now valueless ! — though. 

In that last moment of expiring day, 

While summer’s twilight swept itself away, 

They should have felt the softness of the hour 
Sink in the heart, as dew along the flower, 

And gently shar’d tfiat calm, so still, so deep. 

The voiceless thought, which would not speak, but weep, 

the anxious grief that harassed the feelings of both rendered tliem 
nothing to each other. 

It was soon time for the unexpected visitor to depart; for 
Sophy’s faithful old attendant — her attendant from infancy — was 
not to be deterred by the presence of a guest, from obeying the 
orders of the doctors and removing her darling to bed ere the 
night air exercised its injurious influence. 

“ Bowen, here is Captain Davenport. You remember Marcus, 
at Calcutta, don’t you, Bowen ? Marcus, don’t yon remember 
dear old Bowen, whom you used to plague so much about her 
Norwich shawl?” 

Marcus tried to remember. But there was no need for any 
eflbrt of memory on the part of the old nurse. The Captain had 
officiated, as proxy for her grandfather, at Miss Sophia's christen- 
ing; and his generosity on the occasion had made an indelible 
impression. 

“ To be sure, she remembered Captain Davenport, and she 
hoped she saw him well. Only he mustn’t keep Miss Burton 
from going to rest at her usual hour ; ’cause that was out of all 
rule and reg’lation.” 

Marcus instantly rose to depart. But after taking leav’e of 
Mrs. Burton, he was gently called back by little Sophy. 

“You must come to-morrow — early to-morrow, xery early to- 
morrow, please,” said she. “ Perhaps I may feel stronger and 
able to talk. For I want so much to chat to you about India — 
and about Amy — and about — about everything. It makes me 
feel better to hoar your voice again,” 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


307 


It will be readily believed that Marcus was not slow to make 
the engagement. At the earliest hour named by Mrs. Burton as 
suitable for the interview after the invalid had taken her midday 
siesta^ he was at the villa. But since they parted the night 
before, all his thoughts had been with them. Ilis chief desire 
had been to procure for the child some gift that would remind 
her of her balmy days, when ho was the fountain-head of her 
childish delights. 

That Luck with which he had formerly boasted when on the 
best of terms, favored his wishes. "While lounging betimes in 
the port on his return from his morning bathe, Marcus discovered 
on the forecastle of a felucca just arrived from Tangiers, a sailor 
having on his shoulder one of the most beautiful of foreign birds, 
a king-bird of Africa, tamed as only sailors know how to tame ; 
and after a very short parley the beautiful creature was pluming 
its scarlet wings on the sleeve of a new master. Gentle, brilliant, 
and playful, it was the very pet for an ailing child. 

So thought little Sophy, when in the course of the afternoon 
it took its perch upon the edge of her couch ; sidling and fond- 
ling with a grace which brought to her memory, as that of the 
donor, poor Oocotte, with her cry of “Marcus, Marcus.” But 
when the bird crept onward to the sick child's pillow, the con- 
trast between its vivid plumage of scarlet and purple and the 
deathly hue of the sweet face that was smiling on its movements, 
forced a painful perception upon his mind. There would be little 
life remaining in that attenuated frame. 

There was enough, however, to take delight in his company. 
The startle of his unexpected arrival had roused up the child. 
He reminded her of the time when, wilful and wayward, she 
would allow no one but himself to carry her on some Punjaub 
expedition. And, pleased with the idea, she insisted that he 
should again be her bearer ; should take her across the lawn to 
look down upon the glacis; or into the adjoining saloon, which 
-was adorned with rich cornices said to be pillaged from the 
ancient Palace of the Knights. 

“ I am not very heavy — not much heavier, Marcus, than when 
you used to be so kind and indulgent to me, in old times. But 
it is because I am dying,” she whispered, raising her head to his 
ear, when she found herself alone with him under the awning 


808 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


on the laAvn. “ Dear mamma fancies I do not know Avhat makes 
lier sit crying, in the dark, every evening, as slie Avas when your 
coining surprised us so pleasantly last night. But I often over- 
hear the doctors, when they tliirik me asleep. And I knoAV tliat 
it Avill shortly he over here, Marcus: that I shall soon feel no 
more pain — no more struggle for breath. I shall be in Heaven. 
There is no need to cry for me. If I could only take her Avith 
me! But she Avill be so lonely Avhen I am gone — so very, 'cery 
lonely. You must Avrite to Amy Meadowes, and beg her from 
me to be very loving and attentive to my dear, dear mother Avheii 
she has lost her little girl.” 

Mark Davenport, like most selfish people, Avas by no means 
fond of children. It has been already admitted that the pros- 
pect of becoming a stop-father had been one of the causes that 
originally estranged him from Bachel Burton; and that the por- 
traits of Ned and Frank in Mary Ilargood’s sketch-book, nearly 
effected a similar disenchantment. But while listening to the 
languid prattle of poor little Sophy, the child Avho through six 
years of estrangement had been so true to him, he felt that he 
Avould Avillingly sacrifice half his fortune to restore her to health. 

Mrs. Burton saAV and heard nothing. Grief had blinded her 
eyes to all but a single object. But old Mrs. Bowen was touched 
to the bottom of her heart by the tenderness Avith Avhich that 
stsrn and manly-looking soldier tended her nursling. “ To be 
sure, the Captain AA^as a brother to Miss Burton’s papa,” she had 
always heard. “And now, he AA^as like more than a father to 
the child.” 

While these sad scenes AA^ere proceeding on the shores of the 
Mediterranean, the banks of the Thames Avere resounding Avirh 
their usual summer pastimes. Those days “ Avoven of silk and 
gold,” Avhich constitute the brightest part of the London season, 
Avith its dejeuners, races, water-parties, and revieAvs, Avere anx- 
iously counted over, like a boy notching off* the days till the holi- 
days, by Lord Davenport. For about the middle of July, when 
the most important of his Parliamentary duties should be brought 
to a close, he was to receive at the altar of St. Margaret’s Church, 
the hand so eagerly coveted. 

All, meauAvhile, was proceeding smoothly. The trousseau^ a 
well-selected and costly gift to Mary from her future mother -in- 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


309 


law, was already brought home; and scarcely a day but placed 
upon her table some pleasant cadeau from the bridegroom. — 
"Wants hitherto undreamed of, were forestated; and of many of- 
the rich and tasteful objects heaped upon her, she was literaliy 
obliged to inquire the use. Eeadily, however, did she adopt 
every suggestion and every offering. She felt that it was her 
duty to be guided by Lady Davenport in all tliat could conduce 
to the credit of the family, or satisfaction of her husband. 

She did not spoil him, however. She still continued to assert, 
when occasion needed, opinions of her own. 

“ A pretty imbroglio we have all made of it,” said she, when 
he entered the studio, — no longer a house of bondage, — some 
days after Mr. Drewe’s letter had been forwarded to Radensford. 
“I have heard from Amy.” 

“Who does not, I hope, write about an imbroglio?” 

“ I will call it muU^ if you prefer slang to Italian. But in plain 
English, she accepts.” 

“Accepts Hamilton Drew'e? Impossible! I can’t and -won’t 
believe it.” 

“ Tlien you are very unreasonable. Did you not tell me, a 
few days ago, that my cousin had shown herself unreasonably 
haughty in refusing Mr. Eustace; that, like Rosalind, she ought 
to “ down on her knees, and thank Heaven fasting for a good 
man’s love ?” 

“But no such a man as Hamilton Drewe. No, no! Marcus 
may bestow Cocotte upon our gentle shepherd. But I cannot 
think of throw’ing away upon him my favourite cousin. AVhy, 
your wicker lay-figure, Mary, has more brains and substance in it, 
than Drewe.” 

“My wicker lay-figure has not laid at Amy’s feet six thousand 
a-year and a fine old seat in Northumberland.” 

“Fie, Mary, fie!” 

“ Did you not throw some such advantages into the balance 
■when extolling the merits of William Eustace ? Amy is, as you 
then observed, all but friendless.” 

“ But then I tell you that Eustace is as much attached to her 
as ever; that he has never swerved from his desire to make her 
his wife.” 

Ay,— but you never told Tier so. And how was she to sur- 


310 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


miseit? It would have been great presumption on my cousin’s 
part, to fancy that a man like your friend, Mr. Eustace, apparently 
engrossed by his })ublio dutie*?, surrounded by the more impor- 
tant calls and claims of parliamentary business, was secretly 
cherishing a little flickering invisible flame for a poor girl mop- 
ing in country obscurity ! I think she was perfectly right to ac- 
cept Mr. Drewe; a well-educated, enlightened man, — wliom 
she will fashion as she likes, and convert into a reasonable 
being.” 

“Oh! Mary, Mary!” 

“I have just written her my consent in form. And it only 
remains for you to convey the good news to your amiable friend 
Mr. Drewe.” 

“My/r/i5;n^, Mr. Drewe! At most, an acquaintance of Mar- 
cus, and an object of ridicule even to Aiw.” 

“ Many highly meritorious people are the objects of fashionable 
sarcasm.” 

“Dear Mary! You are really too provoking!” cried Lord 
Davenport; “for you musthQ aware how much this vexatious 
business grieves and disappoints me! I have been buoying up 
poor Eustace with such false liopes.” 

“ That was wrong and imprudent. But with half the quali- 
ties and qualifications you vaunted so highly the other day, ‘ i)oor 
Eustace’ will have no difficulty in providing himself with some 
charming wife.” 

“ No wife is charming but the one on whom one has set one’s 
heart!” cried he. “ I scarcely know how I shall find courage to 
break to him this unfortunate business !” 

“ If you wish it, I will undertake the task. Having never en- 
couraged his irresolutions, 1 have no scruples of conscience. Let 
me write or speak to him.” 

“ No ! for you do not sympathise with him so kindly as you 
ought.” 

“ Why ought I ? You have both been conspiring against 
Amy, hoping to render her sufficiently mortified and miserable 
to jump at last at Mr. Eustace’s proposals.” 

“ You do not state the case fairly. All I have done has been 
for her good.” 

“ Aye, as my father used to tell poor Ned, while caning him, 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


nil 

or Frank, when kept drimless and siipperless, till too much ex- 
hausted to eat!” 

“And, after all, to throw herself away on that egregious 
gander!” 

“ I have always heard liiin spoken of as a very amiable man,” 
said Mary ])rovukingly. 

“ And will that suthoe 2^our tout potage 
Hugh !'''* interrupted Mary, with uplifted finger. 

“I apologise. Will that suffice for a beautiful, excellent, 
accomplished, well-born girl, witii a very good prospect of a 
fortune of two thousand a year?” 

“ Make it ten, while you are about it ; for, as it can be only 
derived from a fairy godmother, a feAv millions more or less are 
not worth considering.” 

“ The fairy godmother is myself. The other daj", during my 
vi-it to Eadensford (an additional proof of the truth of the old 
saw that there is a source of goodness in things evil — for poor 
Frank’s disaster may be the ultimate means of restoring his cousin 
to her estate), when left alone with iMr. Henderson after dinner, 
we began to talk of Sir Mark’s singular oversight and careless- 
ness; of the chance which had let Sir Jervis Meadowes into the 
secret ; and, altogether, the law and equity of the case. I then 
ascertained, to my amazement, that the executors had given up 
the cause on the opinion of a single counsel. Neither of them 
appears to be much of a man of business ; and their country at- 
torneys, the Prescots,- terrified them with their sketch of the 
cost and trouble of a plea in Chancery, as likely to involve them- 
selves and their heirs for ever in litigation and ruin.” 

“ And so they surrendered poor Amy’s inheritance to the hoir- 
at-law, without striking a blow in her defence !” 

“Even Mr. Henderson admitted that he sometimes thought 
they had been a little hasty, that they had taken things too much 
upon trust. But he assured me that it was Dr. Burnaby who, 
from the first, as residing within call of the lawyers at Carding- 
ton, had undertaken the part of acting executor in liquidating Sir 
Mark Meadowes’ estate.” 

“ And to Dr. Burnaby, I am certain, you repaired ” — 

“ To Dr. Burnaby and the Prescots. Of course, they scouted 
the idea of stirring up a question so completely settled ; the heir- 


312 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


at-law in possession — all claim from the female line withdrawn. 
But I chose to obtain further information ; and in my capacity 
of lyrochain ami — no, don’t stop me, Norman French is good Law 
English (to the shame of the British Constitution be it spoken) — 
in my capacity of nearest friend to the infant, then — for Amy is 
still only twenty — I required copies of the title-deeds they had 
surrendered, and the information they had taken of the Steward 
of the ]\ranor of Radensford ; the rolls of which, it appears, they 
liad never personally examined. All these, on my return to 
town, I placed in the hands of my owm excellent solicitor to draw 
out a case for a counsel’s opinion.” 

“ And you never told me a syllable about the matter!” 

“ On my return from Radensford, darling, had I not pleasanter 
things to think of? Amy may consider herself lucky that I did 
not make a bonfire of her family papers, in my joy at being ac- 
ce]>ted by her cousin.” 

“ But why never acquaint me, since, that you were stirring so 
kindly in her behalf?” 

“Because I was afraid of raising false expectations. Till I ob- 
tained an opinion in some degree favourable, I would not agitate 
even you on the subject. Even now, that 1 have received the 
most satisfactory confirmation of my favourable view of tlie case, 
I entreat you, dearest, to refrain from a single word to Aniy or 
my aunt, till all is perfectly authenticated.” 

“You may trust me,” replied Mary, giving him her hand, as 
her act and deed, on Avhich he w^as not slow to impress a suitable 
seal. 

“ But what signifies all this now?'" cried Lord Davenport, -witli 
sudden recollection. “ It was delightful to think that, in becoming 
the wife of William Eustace, she w-ould only legalise his occu- 
pancy of the home of his choice. But the idea of that skipjack, 
Hamilton Drewe, presiding as lord and master in the venerable 
family mansion, stringing rhymes in the old hall, and substituting 
orgeat and iced coffee for the manly potations of poor old Sir 
Mark 1” 

“ Well, well! Since it seems that you have been doing good 
in secret, and are really a friend to Amy, I must forgive what 
I consider trifling with her, of late, in the matter of Mr. 
Eustace’s attachment ; and put you out of your pain. Here is 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


313 


lier letter,” continued Mary, taking one from her desk, “ which 
you must take care t6- forward to the devoted Sonaton. But 
you had better provide yourself at the same time with a bottle 
of hartshorn, or, as more appropriate to a poet’s nature — with 
a goose-quill to burn : for his suit is decidedly rejected.” 

“ Thank Heaven ! I am relieved beyond measure. But what 
shall I say to you^ or what shall I do to you, little traitress, to 
punish you for having so abominably tormented me ?” 

“ A trompeur^ trompeur et demi P' cried Mary. “ And take 
it this time in French, for I have nothing else to offer you. As 
you chose to keep me so long in the dark and deceive me con- 
cerning Mr. Eustace’s intentions, half an hour’s uncertainty 
respecting those of Mary Meadowes, is a very lenient punishment. 
And lo r* I fling aside my black cap.” 


CHAPTER XL. 

So affecting, because so accurate, was the news that reached 
Radensford Rectory by each succeeding mail, that Lady Mead- 
owes was fully prepared for the return, at any moment, of 
Mrs. Burton; bringing with her all that was mortal of her 
idolized child. After this sad event, her continued presence at 
the Rectory would be only a constraint upon Mr. Henderson 
and his daughter. 

The old Rector dearly loved his little grandchild. But he^ 
had long given her up as lost to this world ; and at his age, the 
approaching separation was not of much account. Another 
home, he knew, was prepared for both ; and the deep sorrow 
often perceptible in the mild blue eyes, whose benevolent ex- 
pression still beamed brightly from amidst his long white hair 
and snowy eyebrows, arose simply from compassion for the mo- 
ther about to be doubly bereaved. 

“ Promise to be as kind td poor Rachel when we have both 
forsaken her,” he once said to Lady Meadowes, “ as you have 
been during our lifetime ; and I shall feel less reluctant to leave 
her alone in this world.” 


14 


314 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


Conscious that her visit to the old neighborhood was drawing, 
to a close, Amy reproached herself with liaving postponed the 
completion of the drawing that was to redeem her promise to 
the good old doctor; and, one fine morning at the beginning of 
July, accompanied by the Kectory weeding boy to carry her 
camp-stool and box of materials, and escorted by little Sophy’s 
asthmatic old spaniel, a former gift from Captain Davenport, 
which ever since the poor child’s departure had become her 
constant companion. Miss Meadowes set olf for the forest which, 
from the clump of oaks commanding a view of the «hady pool 
where the water-lilies were now in exuberant blossom, she had 
already sketched in her landscape. 

The morning was fresh and beautiful, and the verdure, refresh- 
ed by the sparkling of a summer shower late in the night, looked 
bright as spring ; so that Amy’s paint-box seemed scarcely equal 
to delineate its vivid hues. She had often before been bafSed in 
her attempts to colour after nature, in the open face of day. 
Never so much so, as that morning. Perhaps because, notwith- 
standing the brightness of the season and the scene, the heart 
within her was as dull as Rosalind’s, when she^ too, found in her 
wanderings in the forest, that she had not “ a word to throw at 
a dog.” 

Lady Meadowes had that morning announced to her an im- 
pending family arrangement, if possible more unsatisfactory than 
to become Mrs. Hamilton DreWe, and the rival of the tuneful 
Nine. She had solved it with her brother that since, on Mary's 
marriage, he was to give up his present dreary home and engage 
a small house nearer to his office, they had better form but a 
single household; which their united income of a thousand 
a*year, might render advantageous to both. 

Now, between the cheerful, lightsome, easy temper of Amy, and 
the ratiocinations manhood of her Uncle Hargood, there existed 
as utter an incompatibility as between liberal and conservative, 
or fire and water. Far rather become a national school-mistress, 
or a sewer of shirt-seams, or any .other species of female white 
slave, than submit to the thraldom of being tyrannised over by 
so harsh a monster. There was not a grain of fellow-feeling 
between them. 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


315 


It was already settled that she and her mother wBre to spend 
the autumn at Ilford with Lady Davenport ; the newly-married 
couple being bound for Italy, where Hugh was looking" forward 
to the delightful task of introducing to the classical scenery and 
noble galleries which he had reviewed with so little interest when 
under the documentation of his travelling tutor, the highly-gifted 
being whose inspirations w^ould intellectualise his mind, while 
her liveliness gladdened his heart. 

But after the autumn — after the winter which was to unite 
the whole family under the roof of Ilford Oastle — what was to 
become of her, then ; if exposed to perpetual lectures and the 
unpleasant spectacle of the overbearing despotism exercised 
over her mother by the Cato of Soho — Lady Meadowes would 
be routed out of all those indolent habits which had become 
second nature to her. Her health would probably suffer. But 
what remonstrance of hers w'as likely to prevail against the iron 
will and grating voice of Uncle Hargood ? 

Like the lovely Lady Christobel, “she drew in her breath 
with a hissing sound” at the thought ! 

Just then a supposed yelp from Dotty the old spaniel, who 
was snuffing about at a distance in pursuit of the shrewmice, 
abounding on the spot, caused her to look up ; and lo ! old Sting, 
bounding amidst the fern, and a stranger approaching her along 
the path from Meadowes Court. Her breath grew nearly as 
short as Dotty’s : for she saw in a moment that, though wonder- 
fully changed by the lapse of nearly two years since they parted, 
it was none other than William Eustace. 

His step was no longer the lounging stride of the London 
man, but firm and elastic. His countenance was no longer that 
of the supercilious exquisite of Barfont Abbey, but manly and 
intelligent. You were prepared by his exterior to find that he 
could at length utter six consecutive sentences without pronoun- 
cing the words “ bosh” or “ bore.” 

Amy, however, was prepared for nothing, except to let the 
greater part of her drawing materials fall in confusion to the 
ground, as he drew near. Her hand had been taken and shaken, 
and she had answered several inquiries concerning the health of 
Lady Meadowes, before the tumultuous beating of her heart 
allowed her to understand very exactly what she was about. 


316 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


It is probable that Mr. Eustace — if anything of Billy Eustace 
remained in him — was not altogether dissatisfied with the em- 
barrassment his arrival seemed to create. 

You are here to draw or paint said he — patting down the 
yelping Dotty, who alone seemed to resent his intrusion — “ and 
I am interrupting your occupation. I understand from Daven- 
port that you have profited much, since I last saw your 
performances, by the instructions of my friend Mark.” 

The observation was accidental, but Amy, conscious how 
large a share the then unknown Mark had exercised in her 
girlish rejection of the suit of the individual now addressing her 
felt half disposed to resent it. 

“I have finished my work for this morning,” said she. “ The 
sun is getting too high for me.” And as she held out to dry in 
the sunshine the landscape she was desirous of replacing in her 
portfolio, it was impossible for her companion not to commend 
its highly artistic execution. 

He took it at once in bis hand, as if to compare it with the 
points of scenery it purported to concentrate; perhaps in order 
to afford a little breathing time to his agitated companion. 

She would have given worlds to recover her composure. She 
would have given worlds to command her voice. But in spite 
of herself, her colour went and came, her hands trembled so 
violently that she could not untie the strings of the portfolio to 
receive the drawing ; and when she finally thanked Mr. Eustace 
for his assistance, it might just as well have been any other 
person who addressed him. 

“You seem almost afraid of me. Miss Meadowes!” said he, 
perceiving that her henchman in the smockfrock was out of 
hearing, and that even Dotty had forsaken them in the hench- 
man’s favour. “ And how can I wonder, when I recall to mind 
my detestable, my most ungentlemanly conduct at our last meet- 
ing ! It scarcely becomes me to say by what deep, deep repen- 
tance and regret it has been atoned. But if I could dare to 
hope that such an assurance might effect a single step towards 
obtaining your forgiveness — ” 

“You have long been thoroughly forgiven,” faltered Amy, 
more and more confused. And how she longed, at that moment 
for the power of expressing graciously, but not too graciously 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


317 


that perhaps lier own conduct on that occasion might require a 
little indulgence. 

The shrewd Goldoni has observed that there are occasions 
when a good tongue is of ten times more value than a good head. 
Miss Meadowes’s tongue refused altogether to obey her word of 
command. It was indeed an unruly member. 

The lubberly boy whom Hamilton Drewe would probably have 
called his “ little foot page,” was now summoned and charged 
with her “ impedimenta having taken possession of which, ho 
started otf at a postman’s pace towards the village : conceiving 
that his attendance could not be wanted when such a fine young 
gentleman was on the spot, to take charge of Dotty and his 
young lady. 

To Amy, this was somewhat annoying ; for it seemed to im- 
pose on her companion the necessity of escorting her home. 
But again, the langue Men pendue^ whose fluency she envied, 
came to his aid. 

“ I am on my way to the manor-house,” said he, “ to convey 
some orders from my Aunt Warneford. If I am not unreason- 
ably intruding, perhaps you will allow me the honor of accom- 
panying you as far as the village.” 

“ Lady Harriet is not coming then, at present?” inquired Amy, 
after an awkward bow of acquiescence. 

“No! she has all but established herself at Brighton. Some 
pill-monger, who has obtained her ear (no difficult question where 
her grandchildren are in conquest I), has persuaded her that sea- 
air is essential to tho boys ; and she has consequently placed 
them at one of those dreadful nurseries for puny little lords, who 
send so many miserable starvelings to rough it afterwards at Har- 
row or Eton- 

“ And Lady Harriet is living at Brighton to be near 
them ?” 

“ Say rather to preclude the least chance of their being prop- 
erly and wholesomely disciplined. The fate of this poor little 
child of Mrs. Burton’s, seems to have alarmed her.” 

“ But the Warnefords are healthy boys — the very opposite of 
poor dear delicate little Sophia!” 

“Who can account for the vagaries of excessive affection! 
Those who have seen the all but last idol of their lives broken 


318 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


before their eyes, must be pardoned for clinging, a little unrea- 
sonably, to what remains to them.” 

Amy silently applauded the sentiment ; though it was one that 
the Billy Eustace of former times would probably have pro- 
nounced bosh.” 

“ I fear,” said she, nervously, “ by the manner of your allusion 
to little Sophy, that you have heard further ill news respecting 
her ?” 

“ The very worst. Her dissolution, hourly expected when the 
last packet left Malta, must by this time have taken place.” 

‘‘Poor dear child! I have known and loved her fi»r so many 
years,” said Amy, her eyes filling with tears, “ that I cannot 
reconcile myself to the idea of never seeing her again.” 

‘‘Marcus writes word that she is perfectly resigned: fully 
aware of what awaits her, but perfectly resigned.” 

“ Marcus? Ho you allude to my Cousin Mark? How should 
he know arything of her state?” 

“ Are you not aware,” rejoined Eustace, and his conscious 
companion fancied that there was malice in his eye and intona- 
tion as he spoke — “ that Captain Davenport followed Mrs. Bur- 
ton to Malta, and is now, most fortunately, on the spot to act for 
them both ?” 

Marcus ! Only six months before, prepared to sacrifice body 
and soul for love of Mary Hargood ! And now, once more at 
the feet of his once-loved Rachel I “ Oh ! Marcus, Marcus 1” 

“ No,” she replied, firmly,. “ I knew nothing of it. When 1 
left home, the Davenports were still uneasy concerning my 
cousin, and anxious for his return to his parliamentary duties. 
Olivia, who constantly writes to me, has never mentioned his 
being at Malta.” 

“The circumstance has only lately transpired.” He did not 
think it necessary to add that it was not without its share in his 
own hurried journey to Meadowes Court. 

“ Will it be better, do you think,” added Amy, “ to mention it 
to Mr. Henderson? To my mother, of course. From her, I 
have no concealments. But it seems possible that — ” she paused. 

“ That what 

“ That he might almost prefer Mrs. Burton being alone with 
her dying child.” 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. ' 319 

“ And why ?” persisted tlie pitiless Eustace, who, though ho 
perfectly understood her meaning, chose to make her explain 
lierself. She ought to be made to tell what danger she appre- 
hended from the presence of this irresistible Mark. 

But Amy was as brave as he was cruel, and disappointed 
him by speaking out. High-minded people gather courage from 
persecution. 

“ Because in former times, Marcus was known, it seems, to 
entertain a strong attachment for Mrs. Burton : and the present 
moment is scarcely the one for renewing his attentions.” 

“ I cannot agree with you, my dear Miss Meadowes. Unhappy 
and friendless in a stranger country, what time could be more 
auspicious for his devoting himself to her service ? Even my 
aunt, with her once-strict notions of propriety, was overjoyed at 
hearing that poor Mrs. Burton, for whom she has the sincerest 
regard and compassion, had so devoted a protector at hand.” 

“ In that case, we will at once mention it to Mr. Henderson,” 
said Amy. 

And how in his heart did he thank her for the “ we” which, 
even for so trifling a measure, served to unite their names and 
wills in one. 

“You have seen a great deal of the Davenports lately?” said 
Amy, gathering courage from his silence. 

“ A great deal. As you may suppose, I can never see too 
much of them.” And there was an unmistakable emphasis on 
the personal pronoun. 

“ Olivia is an excellent correspondent,” added Miss Meadowes. 
“ She often mentions you in her letters,” 

“ Yes, darling child! She is kindness and good nature per- 
sonified ! And so happy just now. It is like a gleam of sun- 
shine to see her happy face.” 

Amy would have given half that she possessed — little enough, 
as she imagined — for courage to offer him her congratulations. 
But Sisyphus might as well have pretended to play at ball with 
his stone, as Amy to pronounce the word marriage that hovered 
on her lips. 

They had now emerged from the last thicket of the forest; 
where the haws were beginning to redden on the fine old thorns. 
They had reached the meadows; and had no great distance 


320 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


before them in the ferny path skirting the hedgerows of the 
pastures still dividing them from Eadensford. The old grey 
tower of the church was already visible between the ash -trees of 
the screen sheltering the Kectory. Yet still, neither had really 
spoken to each other. That is, neither had uttered a single syl- 
lable of what lay nearest their hearts! For all the vaunted elo- 
quence of William Eustace, on one point he was tongue-tied ! 

As they approached the Kectory, both were equally startled 
by perceiving that, at the door stood a posting-carriage, with a 
pair of smoking horses ! The same idea presented itself to both. 
News, bad news — from Malta. 

Tn that case, days, nay, weeks might elapse, before such 
another opportunity presented itself to Mr. Eustace as the one 
he had so memorably neglected ! On the spur of his apprehen- 
sions, he suddenly entreated Miss Meadowes to grant him five 
minutes’ conversation before she entered the house. 

They had fortunately just reached a screen of fine ash-trees, 
planted by the old Eector, some ten years before his daughter^ 
saw the light, to shelter the house from the north and east ; to 
which, in honor of their growth, he had within the last six 
months assigned the air of a double avenue, by a gravel-walk in 
the centre, rendering available, at all seasons, their pleasant 
shade. To a sheltered seat, placed in the further extremity, 
Amy now led the way ; for she was forewarned by the beating 
of her heart that the five minutes requested, would pass lesa 
agreeably in presence of a postboy and pair, than in that of 
linnets and chaffinches. 

One minute of the five sufficed to convince her that her sur- 
mises were just. Of what passed during the remaining four, she 
was' not very accurately conscious. William Eustace had pro- 
bably inquired with some degree of unction into his chances of 
success if he presumed to renew the suit she had formerly 
rejected. For when the mist cleared from her eyes, and the con- 
fusion from her ears, she found herself thanked again and again 
and again, and again addressed as a more than angel, not in the 
polyglot lingo of Ilamilton'Drewe, but in the plainest English 
that ever managed to express, I “love you. Deign to become 
ray wife,” 

Poor Amy, however, was not so thoroughly overcome as to be 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


321 


indifferent to the injury which the fickleness of her adorer was 
inflicting upon her cousin Olivia. 

“ You cannot — no, surely you cannot have been so ready to 
tliiiik ill of me as to imagine that, having once loved and appre- 
ciated a being like yourself, I could be enthralled by tlie attrac- 
tions of a mere child?” said he, in answer to her prompt accusa- 
tions. 

“ But the whole family — the whole world — was equally 
deceived.” 

“ The whole world perhaps — for it will swallow nearly its own 
bulk in fabrications. But believe me the family was from the 
very first aware of the nature of my views and feelings. Inquire 
of Lord Davenport, and he will tell you how early in our inti- 
macy I confided to him the state of my heart.” 

Amy made no repl3\ She was perhaps occupied in adding up 
the amount of sleepless nights from which her cousin Hugh 
might have rescued her, had he chosen to be a little more com- 
municative. 

Her reply, meanwhile, was of a nature to restore as much 
peace of mind to Mr. Eustace as he had been instrumental in 
conferring on herself. Eor the ensuing five minutes, in addition 
to those originally demanded, no two persons on earth could be 
more exquisitely happy than those who had severally overcome 
so strong a prejudice, in order to arrive at a due appreciation of 
each other’s merits. 

As they were now resting in the shady arbor-seat which 
occupied the angle of the avenue, old Sting seized the opportu- 
nity to renew to the daughter of his kind master his rough 
caresses of former years — considerably to the detriment of Amy’s 
muslin dress. 

“ No, poor fellow! let him alone,” said she to the happy man 
who wished to disencumber her of the heavy paws that rested on 
her knees. “ You are more indebted to Sting for my good 
opinion than you are at all aware of. The feelings I have just 
avoAved in your fiivor date, I am sadly afraid, from the moment 
of seeing him installed in his old place on the door-mat at 
Meadowes Court! I could not believe that act of kindness to be 
altogether a tribute to Olivia Davenport ; I could not help even 

14 * 


322 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. * 


ftmcying that poor Amy had some little share in your goodness ^ 
to the Manestys, and Blanche and Sting. 1 began by being grate- 
ful. How it all ended, you have already forced me to confess.” 

The arguments used by William Eustace in reply, it is by no 
means necessary to transcribe. It his sentiments vere nut 
clothed in those well-rounded periods for which his parliamen- 
tary eloquence was already attaining considerable renown, they 
were all that was desired by his companion ; and would probably 
have been extended with a ditfuseness wliich, from the House, 
might have elicited cries of “Question, question!” (albeit the 
momentous question was now both asked and answered), but for 
the anxieties on account of Mrs. Burton, which by degrees over- 
mastered even the satisfaction of the happy Amy. 

“ Wait for me here,” said she, “ and I Avill bring 3 'ou, as soon 
as I can, the tidings, good or bad, conveyed by yonder mes- 
senger.” 

Before he could assent or disent, she was off like a bird into 
the house. 

Bad indeed was the news — though scarcely worse than the 
])revious anticipations of the family. Captain Davenport himself 
was the messenger; having landed at Southampton the previous 
da}^, in a steamer especially chartered to bring back to England 
the remains of Mrs. Burton’s idolised child, to be interred in 
Kadensford church by the side of her own mother. 

lie Avas come to prepare Mr. Henderson for the commence- 
ment of the necessary arrangements. What more he came to 
announce to the good Hector, he confided at present only to 
Lady Meadowes. For so completely was the kindlj^-affectioned 
man overcome by the confirmation of his sinister presentiments 
concerning the darling of his old age, that Marcus had not 
courage to accost him at such a moment with a love-story. 

He was to return instantly to Southampton, and accompany 
back into Gloucestershire all that remained to poor Hachel of 
her lost treasure. In the interim, “ the kindest of aunts ” was 
to seize some favorable moment for enliglitening the inhabitants 
of the Rectory as to the part he was in future to assume in the 
family. 

It is to be hoped, nay, it is easy to be believed, that this 


rilOGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


023 


single-minded woman, so much more in aAve of the rebukes of 
lier own conscience than of those of Public Opinion, would fulfil 
her mission in a better spirit than that exercised by anotlier 
“ kindest of aunts,” when she undertook to diplomatise at Mea- 
dowes Court in behalf of William Eustace: 


CHAPTER XLI. 

Suon was the state of aftairs between Lady Meadowes and 
her nephew Marcus, when the return of Amy apparently from 
her sketching expedition, relieved her mother from the necessity 
of doing the honours of the luncheon table to one who, after his 
melancholy night journey, stood much in need of refreshment. 

But when she had departed on her errand of mercy, to offer 
such scanty comfort as affectionate friendship can afford to the 
afflicted old Rector, an explanation took place between the cou- 
sins which her presence might have in some degree impeded. 
Marcus, Avhose feelings were never of a very ethereal nature, did 
not hesitate to inform her while he ate his cold lamb and drank 
his pale ale, that though at present her heartbroken friend was 
unable to detach a thought or feeling from the loss of her belov- 
ed child, he had reason to hope that, at no distant period, Rachel 
Burton would seek in “ a happy marriage,” (oh ! Marcus, 
Marcus I) consolation for her heartrending loss. 

In as few words as possible, — a stenographic edition of the 
eloquence of the M. P., — “ couched ” like Beatrice, “ in the 
woodbine coverture,” — he stated how greatly his care and atten- 
tion has assisted to alleviate the sufferings of both mother and 
child. And Amy could well believe his assertion that, but for 
his devotion to them, the hopeless position of Mrs. Burton alone 
in a foreign colony, would have been indeed hard to endure. 

“ But what is to become of you. Cousin Mark,” inquired Miss 
Meadowes,“ when poor Rachel is installed here with her father ? 
You can scarcely become at once the inmate of Mr. Henderson, 
to whom you are at present a stranger ?” 

Captain Davenport looked more puzzled than pleased. Ap- 
parently, the dilemma had not before presented itself to his ima- 


324 


FllOGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


gination. John Gilpin may have been satisfied that “ his wife 
should dino at Edmonton, and he sliould dine at Ware — but 
lovers are less patient. Daily interviews if not daily dinners 
eaten in common, seem indispensable as a prelude to connubial 
happiness. 

“ Because,” persisted Amy, in pity to his sorrowful counte- 
nance, I think I can venture to offer you the hospitalities of a 
house in this neighbourhood.” 

“ Not Lady Harriet Warneford’s I hope ! That stiff-necked 
Pharisee is one of my abominations.” 

“ Of a house in this neighbourhood,” continued his cousin, 
“ where, happy as I once was as Amy Meadowes, I mean some 
day to be happier as ” — 

“ Amy Eustace ! I knew it — I guessed it ! That charming 
old Meadowes Court. How long, Amy, has it all been arrang- 
ed ?” 

“Not quite a quarter of an an hour. And my dearest mo- 
ther’s consent has still to be asked. I can venture, however, 
to promise that it will not be xtery reluctantly bestowed !” 

“I should think not !” cried Marcus, — ^^vho, in the joy of his 
own happy prospects, was in charity with the whole world; and 
had thoroughly forgiven William Eustace his manifold offences, 
from the cricket-match at Eton down to his last triumphant 
speech in the House, — “ one of the first men of the day, — one of 
the best fellows going! Amy, I heartily wish you joy I” 

“ And let us keep our own counsel and betray to nobody,” 
archly rejoined Miss Meadowes. “ How often, in the old house at 
Battersea, we used to call him a prig and a bore, — Young Vapid, 
&c., &c.” 

“Hush, hush!” cried Marcus, full of compunction; “the 
man of Avhom we then spoke was Billy Eustace, tlie duchess 
fancier, not the honourable member for Horndean. As far as I 
am concerned, I repent, I recant, I apologise. And when may J 
apologise in person?” 

“ The moment you have finished your glass of sherry. Mr. 
Eustace is at tliis moment waiting for me yonder under the ash- 
trees.” 

Marcus snatched up his hat, and was ready in a moment. It 
seemed as if a new cousin was all that had been wanting to per- 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


'325 


feet his domestic felicity. Anybody would have thought so, at 
least, who could have overheard his fluent congratulations to the 
heir of Horndean Court. He nearly shook his hands off! 
Amazing what gusto is imparted to this truly great British salu- 
tation by long absence in foreign parts, wliere bows and scrapes 
restrict the politeness of life to heads and feet, instead of dislocat- 
ing people’s wrists in token of amity. 

As happy an understanding was speedily established among the 
three, as between the sides of a triangle. Before they parted, it 
was arranged among them that though Lady Meadowes might 
feel it her duty to remain a short time longer at Radensford Rec- 
tory, till Rachel and her father could be left to their mutual com- 
forting, Amy might at once complete the happiness of the 
family circle in town, as the inmate of Lady Davenport. She 
was so much wanted there, by Olivia, — by Mary, — by the happy 
man who could, no more than Marcus, intrude his raptures into 
the'house of mourning. 

In the house of feasting, in Spring Gardens, meanwhile, all 
went well. Lady Davenport had gained another daughter in the 
dear Mary; so clear-headed, so right-minded, so affectionate 
now, that a key of kindness had been applied to unlock the rich 
treasury of her heart. They were all so happy 1 — and happiness, 
like varnish applied to a well-painted picture, brings out the 
brightest colors. 

When the news reached them from Radensford of the two 
marriages so desired and so desirable, that were about at once to 
enlarge and concentrate the family connection, so great was the 
general joy, that the fate of 'poor little Sophia met with scarcely 
becoming sympathy. Lord Davenport, indeed, assumed to him- 
self no small share of the honor in having brought about the 
match of his Cousin Amy. But whenever Mary saw him dis- 
posed to plume himself on his successful machinations, she in- 
sisted that his flrst attempt at manoeuvering should be his last. 
Having discovered, she said, the vile duplicity of his character, 
it would be painful to be always on her guard against his strata- 
gems. 

When at length Amy made her appearance among them, in 
spite of all her happy prospects, deeply saddened by the scenes 
of affliction she has recently witnessed at Radensford, it became 


326 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


her turn to be questioned concerning the new sister-in-law to 
whom, in process of time, they were to be introduced by Marcus. 
None of them had seen her; and the idea of a middle-aged 
widow was not altogether attractive. It was a relief indeed to 
learn tliat the Racliel they were required to love, was younger 
than Marcus, gentle, pleasing, and possessed of considerable per- 
sonal attractions ; nor was it an unsatisfactory addition to tlie 
list of her merits that, having inherited the property of lier 
child, by law an infant, she was in possession of an income of 
nearly three thousand pounds. About five thousand per annum 
would be the stint of the Pariah who, for so many years, had 
been rebelling against the decree of Providence. 

“Do you remember quarrelling with me, at Battersea,” had 
been one of his parting observations to his dear Cousin A.my, 
“for telling you that I was on the best possible terms with 
Luck? Have I not proved my words? Am I not one of the 
most fortunate of mankind?” 

“Not more so than your brother Hugh.” 

“ AVhy not add not more so than my friend Eustace?” 

“ Well, then, — not more so than your friend Eustace. Heaven 
lias decided for us ah, far better than we had chosen for our- 
selves. Our own choice, our own prejudices, if indulged, would 
have created at least two miserable couples. Whereas, as far as 
human foresight can be relied on, our chances of happiness are 
far beyond the common lot.” 

“ The only person on whose account I feel uneasy and com- 
punctious,” said Lord Davenport, Avhen Miss Meadowes reported 
to his mother, in his presence, this last edition of the ‘ Marcus- 
onian Philosophy,’ ” is our friend Drewe. Poor fellow! do you 
experience no pangs of conscience, Amy, when you reflect on 
that unfortunate individual, and consider that for the remainder 
of his days he may be reduced for consolation to his colloquies 
with poor Cocotte ? 

“ On the contrary,” cried Mary, who, the least fickle of the 
party, had been listening, much amused, to their mutual recrimi- 
nations, “ you have conferrM on him an inestimable benefit. 
Already I foresee, in our poor bewildered Master Slender, a lyi ist 
of the first magnitude. ‘ Donnez moi de Vindignation ct dc la 
misere^' &ays Gozlan, et je rous rendrai des j>oetes VInsomUre 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


327 


fait chercher' Hamilton Drewe will emerge from the gulf of 
milk of roses into which he has probably plunged with a view to 
committing suicide, a rival of Tennyson and Longfellow ! I look 
forward, Amy, to your becoming the fair Geraldine, or Leonora 
d’Este, or Beatrice, of Drewe, of the Lovelocks.” 

“ On the contrary, if we can only persuade him to make fire- 
wood of his laurels,” said Lord Davenport, who, not having been 
admitted, like his brother, to a view of a certain album contain- 
ing sketches of “ The Lady of Avon,” and other striking lyrics, 
had less sympathy perhaps with the Guild of Balladmongers 
than is their due, “and descend from the clouds to terra jirma^ 
and become a rational being, some five years hence, he would 
make the very husband for Olivia. Drewe is an excellent crea- 
ture ; and his good old Northumbrian Manor House of Birkeun 
Tower is only forty miles from Ilford. Think of the happiness 
of dear old Winkelried, if her darling pupil should marry a poet, 
and that rara avis, a rich poet, at last.” 

The employe of the Treasury, meanwhile, was beginning to find 
elbow-room in his new suit, and more at ease with himsell ; he 
was far pleasanter company to other people. Immediately after 
his instalment in his new duties, an official crisis happened to 
arise from a harassing motion in Parliament, requiring not only 
the utmost zeal and industry in his department to en.'ible Govern- 
ment to meet an important discussion, but a degree of general 
historical knowledge rarely to be found among the marrers of 
Treasury pens, and the blurrers of Treasury blotting-paper. The 
aid Edward Hargood, unpretending and spontaneous, afforded, 
proved of Stirling value, and brought him frequently into com- 
munication with the Chancellor of the Exchequer. 

At a ministerial dinney, some weeks afterwards, Lord Daven- 
port was taken aside with solemn mystery, and thanked as the 
means of having secured to Government a highly valuable 
assistant. The noble Earl thus grateful, probably feeling that 
he could not have afforded to be half so well served by a man of 

greater pretensions and a more exacting position than the new clerk. 

But the tribute rendered to his merits imparted new life to 
Edward Hargood. His pride was relieved from an insupportable 
burthen. He was no longer the creature of patronage. Ho was 
rendering back money’s worth for money. 


328 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


Under this conviction, he approached the house in Spring 
Gardens with a stouter step, and bolder gait. A little more, and 
his deportment might have attained, perhaps, an objectionable 
touch of Malvolio. At present, he was a man who bore liis part 
in conversation with the highest credit at Lord Davenport’s table, 
and it seldom happened, after one of the dinner parties, now of 
almost daily occurrence, that some man of mark did not request 
the favour of being presented to the able stranger, whose infor- 
mation appeared so general, even before it transpired, that he was 
on the eve of becoming father-in-law to their host. 

' One evening, the party being limited to the family, they were 
admiring a gorgeous present of emeralds despatched to the bride 
by that sister of the late Lord Davenport, whose tardy mar- 
riage had been supposed to overcloud the early destinies of her 
nephew Mark. 

“ All this is very gratifying, very pleasant, Maiy,” said he to 
the daughter, who was, as usual, required to exhibit these splen- 
did jewels in her beautiful hair. “ But what is your father to 
give you for a wedding present ? Silver and gold have I 
none.” 

“ You have something, my dear Mr. Hargood,” interrupted 
Lord Davenport, “ which Mary has been sadly wanting to ask 
you for, but has wanted courage” — 

“ Wanted courage to ask anything of her own father V"' ex- 
claimed Hargood, preparing to be affronted. “ I should have 
hoped that she had acquired some experience of my indulgence.” 

“ But the boon to which Hugh alludes, my dear father, is so 
rery great a concession,” faltered Mary, the colour rushing to her 
cheeks with anxiety. 

Hargood reflected for a moment, but could bethink him only 
of the grim portraits of the Kector of Henstead and his wife, his 
sole family treasures. But if she wished them to figure in the 
gallery at Ilford Castle, she was welcome. 

“ We want you to make us a present of the two boys, my 
dearest father,” whispered Mary, having, meanwhile, so closely 
approached him as to be able to throw her arm round his neck. 
“You are now too much occupied to be troubled with them. 
And it would be doing the' greatest kindness to Lord Davenport, 
and prove the means of keeping him out of Avorlds of mischief. 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


329 


to aftbrd him something on which to exercise his genius for edu- 
cation. With his usual self-conceit, dear Hugh fancies himself 
‘ to the manner born,’ and wants to make a Newton and a '\yel- 
lington out of my brothers.” 

There was a considerable struggle in the mind of Hargood. 
He could be insensible neither to the kind intentions of his 
daughter and her noble fiance^ nor to the advantage likelj' to 
accrue to his sons from such an adoption. But his pride re- 
belled against such an abdication of paternal authority. And 
then, to renounce the last victims upon whom he was entitled to 
wreak his wholesome tyrannies I 

“ If you would gratify this earnest desire of Mary’s,” added 
Lord Davenport, “ I should much wish to place our elder boy at 
Woolwich, with a view to the highest branch of military service. 
Of little Mark, if you did not object, his sister is bent upon mak- 
ihg a civil engineer.” 

A pretty story, truly. They had literally been carving out the 
destinies of his children, without a word of reference to his opin- 
ion ! Edward Hargood’s heart hardened and his countenance 
darkened at once. 

“We will talk of this another time,” said he, glancing sternly 
round the room ; though it contained only Olivia and Madame 
Winkelried, stitching away at the two extremities of some carpet- 
work, in lambs-wool, as soft and innocent as themselves. “ Two 
human destinies are objects far too important to be thus frivo- 
lously trifled away.” 

“ Do not despair, dearest Mary,” said Lord Davenport, when 
her father had taken his majestic departure. “We will return 
at some more auspicious moment to the charge. Trust me, I 
will leave nothing undone or unsaid till I have obtained their 
young Gracchi as a wedding-present for my Cornelia.” 

“ Perhaps, for the present, we had better let him alone,” re- 
plied Miss Hargood. “ My father’s is a mind which may be safely 
left to its own reflections. It always works itself clear. Unless 
when its temper, like the irritated Sophia, creates a turbid 
medium around him, no human being can see clearer. But tell , 
me, Hugh ! — what is the meaning of all these voluminous des- 
patches passing daily between you and my Aunt Meadowes? 
Draughts of marriage settlements for Amy?” 


830 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


“ liTot yet, though when the good time comes, Marcus and I 
are to be his trustees” — 

“ And your private conferences with Mr. Eustace ?” 

“ To-morrow you shall know all. But it is a secret of which 
others are intitled to the first disclosure.” 

“ A secret to be kept from one so soon to be your wedded 
wife ? Beware ! Remember how I punished your last disinge- 
nuous manoeuvre.” 

“ I am not afndd. For the mystery involves the hap- 

piness and prosperity of Amy and her mother.” 

“I see, I know, I guess it all,” said Mary, enthusiastically 
clapping her hands. “A few words have caught my ear, which 
afford me perfect enlightenment. Meadowes Court is about to 
be restored to them! Meadowes Court is again theirs.” 

It never belonged to any other person, except in the credu- 
lous belief of two very muzzy old gentlemen, united by blending 
country attorneys. When you make your will, Mary, if ever you 
sufficiently instruct your husband to find such an operation de- 
sirable, see tliatyou choose middle-aged executors — neither young 
enough to be flighty, nor old enough to be hoodwinked.” 

“ I wonder what other possible, or impossible wish one could 
form,” said Miss Hargood, who had been listening to the prompt- 
ings of her own heart, rather than to his counsels, — “ to perfect 
the happiness of our family circle ! Almost too many blessings 
have been showered down upon us 1 Would Olivia, do you think, 
like to become a maid of honour, or Hamilton Drewe, poet lau- 
reate ? — or Madame Winkleried almonress to the Queen ?” 

“Ho jesting on such a suject, darling Mary !” whisi)ered 
Lord Davenport. “For I sometimes fimey that we are almost 
too happy. Evil fortune is ever lying in wait for those who do 
not appreciate, with as much reverence as gratitude, the unmer- 
ited favours of Heaven.” 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


83i 


CONCLUSION. 

“ Old Ceuvey, again, by Jove!” cried one of the Cruxleyans, 
who was watching for arrivals, at tbe Club window ; which, 
now that London was beginning to thin, at the close of the sea- 
son were hailed as a refreshing novelty-; “ Old Cruvey, dyed to 
look as good as new ; and with a white moss-rose in his button- 
hole, like a Zephyr in tbe last ballet. Where has poor Methuse- 
lah been hiding himself? I'never missed him.” 

“ He goes down into Gloucestershire'', every summer, to eat 
seven salmon in the original,” replied Lord Curt. 

“ Rather,” added Ned Barnsley, one of the amplefiers, “ to 
spunge upon an old brother-in-law, who, being deaf as a post 
runs less risk of being prosed to death by his lengthsomeness.’’ 

Don’t abuse Cruvey ; — Cruvey has his value,” retorted Lord 
Curt. “ His memory is a sort of national warehouse, in which 
everything lost, stolen or strayed, is to be found in bond. Did 
you never see the list of articles deposited by honest Cubureu 
{mircibile dictu) at the Inland Office ? “ No. 1, a cotton umbrella. 
No. 2, a lace veil. No. 4, a walking-stick. No. 5, a diamond 
necklace. No. 6, a pair of gloves. No. 7, a packet of railway 
debentures.” Just such a jumble does a second bottle of claret 
extract out of the knowledge-box of my friend Cruvey.” 

“ But what the deuce is he talking about ? Bo let one listen. 
Curt.” ^ 

“Surely your ears are long enough, for anything, my dear 
Ned?” 

“Why not,— extended as they are by the immense practise 
you afford them !” 

“Here, Cruvey, my good fellow,”— cried the imperturbable 
Curt, “ come this way, and tell us all that over again. It sounds 
good enough for an encore.” 

And Cruvey, seldom honoured with an audience by the bril- 
liant founder of the Cruxleyans, recommenced his tune as punc- 


332 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


tually as a barrel-organ to which a shilling has been thrown 
from some nursery window. 

“ The story is many days old,” said he. “ I only wonder 
that”— 

“ I beg your pardon, my dear Cruvey, — but, before we begin 
to wonder, is this history a true bill, or a Hague ? For at this 
oppressive time of year, one can’t alford to believe, then disbe- 
lieve, and finally argue matters over. Give us first your author- 
ities. Under what act of parliament, in what reign ?” 

“.Under favour of my having been resident within a quarter of 
a mile of the spot where the whole business occurred ; and an 
ear-witness of the greater part of it.” 

“A quarter of a mile? ' There^ JSTed!” whispered Lord Curt, 
aside to Barnsley. “ A pair of ears that beat your own by a 
couple of lengths !” 

“ My brother-in-law. Admiral Tremenheere ; from whoso 
house I returned this morning,” gravely recommenced old Cru- 
vey, “ resides exactly between Meadowes Court and Radensford 
Rectorj ; and was summoned as a witness to the formal ejec- 
tion of Billy Eustace, as tenant to Sir Jervis Meadowes ; to 
whom possession of the estate had been illegally granted by the 
Stewart of the Manor. Lady Harriet Warneford’s grandson, a 
minor, is lord of the Manor (a Court Baron afiair) ; and thanks 
to the irregularity with which the late Colonel allowed the 
Rolls to be kept, certain deeds executed by the late Sir Mark 
Meadowes and his father were missing, when wanted, at his 
decease. Lord Davenport’s solicitors have however been hunt- 
ing them up, with care and cost ; and lo 1 they have emerged from 
the Warneford private deed-chest, instead of having laid safe and 
mouldering in that of the Barony.” 

“ And the end of it is, that Billy Eustace’s love, that pretty 
girl wdth the brown ringlets, retains possession of the estate ; 
and that Billy becomes the tenant of his wife, hey, Cruvey ?” 

“ Precisely — minus the yearly rents. They are to be married 
the end of the week ; and I left the people at Radensford prepar- 
ing triumphal arches and bonfires, sufficient to drive any reason- 
able being out of the country.” 

“ Ay, true ! Davenport and Billy, arcades arribo^ are to be 


PROGRESS AND PREJtJDICE. 


333 


turned off at the same hour from the same drop at St. Mar- 
garet’s on Saturday next ; ‘ to be sold in one prime lot,’ as 
Leifchild would advertise it,” observed a junior Cruxleyan, 
whose attempts at \yit Lord Curt often endeavoured to nip in 
the bud — for there is nothing so injurious to an actor as an inex- 
pert double. 

“ You are, as usual, mistaken, Med I” said he. “ Even my 
nephew Halliday could correct your copy. They are to be mar- 
ried in the Abbey, to afford room for the House of Commons, 
which is to attend in numerical force, at the Summon of the 
Black Rod : besides deputations from the different Public Char- 
ities, at whose dinners Davenport and Eustace have speechified, 
and a procession of Ragged Schools, Royal Academicians, the 
Soup Kitchen and the Foundling Hospital.” 

“Bosh, my dear Curt, bosh! The chaff would be better done 
in an American paper,” retorted Med Barnsley. “ But what was 
that other piece of news you were telling, just now, Cruvey, 
about that Bengal Tiger of a brother of Davenport’s, — whom one 
used to see smoking on the doorsteps of the Junior United Service 
with a face the colour of the electric ball ?” ^ 

“ Mark Davenport ? Only that he is to be privately married 
down in the country, in a week or two, to a very pretty widow, 
to whom he has been long attached ; who is in the enjoyment of 
three or four thousand a year.” 

“ Say it again, and more correctly : a very pretty widow, with 
three or four thousand a year, to which he has been long attached.” 

“The original reading was the correct one. But no matter. 
He has managed to get forty shillings in change for his sove- 
reign, which few of us arrive at.” 

“ In short, ‘ good deeds are beginning to shine in a naughty 
world!’ I wish to badness I could go in again and accomplish a 
second deMt and new maiden speech,” said Lord Curt, with 
pretended peevishness. “ I have been all my life too virtuous. 
But one must have a charm, now that the children of light 
are admitted to have become wiser in their generation than the 
children of this world.” 

And all these details, though spoken in jest and by professed 
jesters, were true as truth ! Before Michaelmas had once more 


334 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


reunited for pheasant-shooting, the distinguished chatter-boxes 
of the clubs, the bridal tours of the three happy couples in ques- 
tion, were passed and oyer ; and Ilford Castle concentrated the 
united family under its roof. They were just in time to inau- 
gurate the new village of Ilford; which to the delight of Mark 
Davenport has superseded in the parish all memory of even the 
name of Quag Lane. 

But it was at Meadowes they were to spend the Christmas 
holidays:— “ dear old Meadowes Court,” — where we found the 
happy Amy : and where, after her painful probation, we leave 
her, still happier than before. 

To Dowager Lady Davenport, estranged for thirty years from 
the home of her childhood, the visit was one of intense gratifi- 
cation ; and the more so, that it was paid hand in hand with 
that excellent sister-in-law, that early friend to whom she was 
endeavouring to atone for the neglect of years. 

Never was there a happier — neyer a more cheerful family 
party. The fine talents of Mary, Lady Davenport, served to em- 
bellish and enhance all their pastimes ; while the quieter cheer- 
fulness of Mrs. Eustace brightened their fireside. She had taken 
care that her little cousins, Ned and Frank should accompany 
her uncle Ilargood : already so far humanized by independence, 
or rather competence — as to sanction their introduction to skat- 
ing, curling, sleighing, nay, even fox-hunting — all the pleasures 
of a country winter. Having fortunately assured to himself the 
task of assorting and cataloguing the miss-matched, old library, 
which absorbed the whole leisure of his week’s holiday, his 
severe rationality interfered but little with the joyousness of the 
junior branches. 

Blanche and Sting retained, of course, possession of their post; 
and Amy’s paroquets, bequeathed by her on leaving Eadensford 
to poor little Sophia Burton, were now, alas ! restored to their 
perdu 

Lady Harriet, whether enlightened or shamed, no matter, 
often brought over her little gi-andsons to play with the young 
Hargoods, to the mutual benefit of all parties ; and good old 
Doctor Burnab}’-, though for a long time he kept aloof, self-con- 
demned at having allowed himself to be humbugged by a Mr 


PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE. 


335 


Chubbs Parkcs into too Basty a cession of the rights of his ward, 
was eventnall}’ persuaded to forgive himself. 

“ All the better in the end, perhaps, my dear Mrs. Eustace,” 
said he, in his first private colloquy with Amy. “Sweet are 
the uses of adversity : though neither you nor your mother 
wanted much of that sort of trial to make you perfect angels. 
I hear you’ve let off that old militia man his two years’ arrears 
of rent ? Prescot is furious at it. But you can better spare the 
money than Sir <Jervis.” 

And so she could, if all the happiness this world affords, may 
entitle people to be liberal ! 

William Eustace, while contemplating the cheerful circle 
created around him by the extinction of family “ prejudice,” — 
and the “progress” of civilization, — could not help reverting to 
the prophecy of poor old Sir Mark, on his first disastrous visit to 
Meadowes Court : “ The day that renders you conscious of the 

value of domestic happiness, will be the best spent day of your 
life.” 

ilTot one of that little party but fully ratified the decree. 


THE END. 









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